Begun by Blood
by A Magnificent Garden Party
Summary: Begun by blood, by blood undone. For ten years the cursed pirates of the Black Pearl sailed the seas to return to the chest of Cortez the 882 coins that went astray. These are the stories of the recovery of some of those pieces of cursed gold.
1. Chapter 1

The crew of the illustrious Broken Compass welcomes ye to Begun by Blood, a collaboration that re-tells the tales of how some of the Aztec coins were recovered during the cursed years of the _Black Pearl's _crew. Herein ye'll find stories of horror, angst, desperation, and humor, and we hope ye enjoy the tales that are spun and the characters ye meet!

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**The Tale of Coin # 13**

Written by: Intrepid Bandicoot

Beta: Nytd

*~*

A tankard whizzed through the air, smashing spectacularly against the wall. The dregs of rum, abiding by the laws of gravity, streamed downwards, raining on the face of a pirate who lay sprawled on the floor underneath. The man swore gruffly and spat without waking. Two other pirates, engaged in exchanging swings, tripped over the drunk and crashed to the floor as well, spewing curses of such magnitude, it would make the dead come alive and die all over again…

Not two feet away, the crew of ten jolly gentlemen of fortune toasted raucously to the generosity of the Spanish king. A pile of gold doubloons, which undoubtedly came from a freshly-sunken Spanish galleon, gleamed on the table. Like moths to the flame, the women flocked to the table to share in the glory.

In the rear corner of the tavern, underneath a huge wizened beam, sat another company of pirates. Their behavior differed surprisingly from the rest of the clientele. While the rest of the pub roared, jumped, cursed and fought, this lot sat quietly, sipping rum from huge mugs and eyeing the roaring rabble around them. These seven pirates gave off a strong impression of people with a purpose in mind. This, however, had passed quite unnoticed, for not a soul in the whole huge room could give two hoots about anyone's business but their own.

"It's here, Cap'n," one of the pirates spoke in a hushed voice, leaning towards the auburn-haired pirate in a magnificent wide-brimmed hat. "I can feel it in my gut."

"Aye, Master Twigg," the captain replied slowly, "that be true."

"What're we waiting for, then?" exploded the dreadlocked pirate next to Twigg. "Let's grab the damn thing and be off. Three bloody months and all we've seen is a piddling handful of coins!"

"Last time I checked, Master Kohler," the captain replied smoothly, his eyes flaring, "I was the one givin' orders."

"An' just you look where your orders got us," Kohler replied poisonously, spitting on the floor, "an exemplary captain you be, Captain Barbossa."

"Have ye somethin' else to say?" Barbossa inquired with icy sweetness, the smile making his face even more intimidating. "If perchance ye do, by all means, do not hesitate."

Fortunately for him, Kohler realized that he was but a half a word away from being pinned to the wall by Barbossa's dagger. Scowling, he took a huge swig of his drink. Grimacing, he spat. The best rum, in his mouth it tasted like nothing at all.

Barbossa awarded his mutinous crewman a menacing smile, accompanied by a superior scoff, and looked about the rest of the group. The pirate captain had no doubt that even though what Kohler alone had the courage, or better to say the impertinence, to speak out loud, was their opinion as well. His glance traveling around the table, he stared them down, one by one. His steely-blue glare spoke plainly that it would be advisable for the rest to hold their tongues, if they knew what was good for them. The looks of defiance disappeared promptly, as pirates dropped their eyes and became preoccupied with their drinks. With a self-satisfied sneer, accompanied by another snort, Barbossa returned his attention to the room at large.

The doors of the pub flew open, admitting two more pirates. Literally racing each other through the parlor, dodging tables, chairs and disgruntled ill-assorted clientele, they hurried towards Barbossa's table.

"We've seen it, Cap'n!" the shorter one exclaimed once he was within earshot.

"Mayhap ye wish to repeat yerself in a slightly louder fashion, Master Pintel?" Barbossa snarled, glaring at the pirate. "Methinks there are people outside this rum-soaked moldy biscuit box who have not heard ye."

Under the captain's stern gaze, Pintel smiled weakly, wishing above all else to evaporate on the spot. The taller one, a plank-thin young man, guffawed quietly at the reprimand his cohort had gotten. As Barbossa's irate gaze traveled to him, the young pirate cleared his throat, at once adapting a sheepish manner.

"Now, if ye be so inclined to oblige us, Master Pintel," Barbossa asked once order was restored, "would ye kindly tell us whatever be it you've come to tell us?"

"It's 'ere, Cap'n," Pintel said at once in an exited whisper. "The coin," he whispered hotly.

"Right 'ere outside," Ragetti chimed in, grinning once more, pointing to the door.

Barbossa lifted his eyebrows at the news.

"Then outside we must go, gents," he declared, rising from his seat and throwing a few coins on the rough table. The crew got up at once and followed Barbossa out of the tavern.

The night was in its prime, although nights in Tortuga differed very little from the days. In the light of multiple torches and bonfires, pirates from all the Seven Seas quarreled, cursed, laughed and fought in dozens of different languages and due to dozens of different reasons, provided that reason had anything to do with it at all. Drunken songs, solos as well as choruses, wove in and out of the overall din. Right next to the inn, two groups on either side of the street were exchanging shots, barricaded behind some empty barrels. Women giggled flirtatiously as they supplied the fighters with huge pints of rum they brought from the tavern.

Pintel and Ragetti led the group out of the door and immediately to the left. A drunk, cross-eyed and wobbly-legged, had unwisely staggered into Barbossa's shoulder. A punch, thrown flawlessly by the Pirate Lord of the Caspian Sea, caught the trespasser squarely in the jaw and threw him backwards, where he landed neatly facedown into a pile of still steaming horse manure. A few crewmen from the_ Black Pearl _laughed approvingly, seeing the fellow sputter and curse to himself in Spanish.

Having traveled for mere minutes, the pirates came to a halt in front of one of the many brothels that graced the blessed land of Tortuga. The street was just as crowded here, if not more so. Many women, decked out in their very best garments, dallied on the front steps of the building with scarlet curtains in the windows. Quite a few draped themselves restfully over the rail of the balcony, casually displaying their best assets. Each and every woman here suffered from an overuse of makeup, as well as from the burden of a heavy, elaborate wig, which looked outstandingly like a beehive, densely populated by fake jewels and bows.

These drawbacks, however, were not at all harming the business. Very similarly to loons, the women dove into the crowd of men, and then promptly dragged their bounty up the stairs and into the house. Some, however, did not even concern themselves with seeking privacy. Moaning, issuing from the dark alleys on both sides of the brothel, was an ample testimony to that.

Just as the cursed crew looked about this frenzy, perhaps entertaining quite a variety of fond recollections as well as sensing the presence of the coin, Pintel nudged Barbossa.

"Lookey here, Cap'n," he pointed obligingly across the street. "This be the sea cow. In the flesh."

"_Hydrodamalis gigas_," Ragetti supplied, appearing at Barbossa's other side, snorting. "Thought they were s'pposed to 'ave snuffed it?"

Barbossa looked first to his left and than to his right, awarding both pirates with the look of purest annoyance.

"Al' but one," Pintel replied, choking into his sleeve. The two burst out laughing. Barbossa rolled his eyes with a sigh and rewarded Pintel with a slap upside the head. Pintel hiccupped, ceasing to laugh at once, and hurriedly slapped Ragetti to somehow remedy his authority.

The whole group was now looking in the direction Pintel pointed. Twenty yards away stood a wench, leaning lazily against the shabby wall. While other women preferred to travel in packs, she was alone. Even in Tortuga, which offered a limitless abundance of characters, she seemed to stand out like a sore thumb of a two-headed giant who stumbled into an ordinary town.

A creature of extreme height, she was nearly as wide as she was tall. Piggy black eyes observed the street, peering from behind her nearly bursting cheeks. Brightly colored lips could not disguise the heavy-set jaw. A rat nest of a brown wig, covered with multitudes of bows and strings of pearls, was perched spectacularly atop her head. One might have easily mistaken her for a man who fancied dressing in female clothing, were it not for the two enormous mounds of flesh atop her scarlet bodice.

The attention of the whole group was attracted immediately to the wench's breasts. It was certainly not because they found them eye-catching. As unlikely as it was for a gentlemen of fortune to not be attracted to a woman, all the pirates privately agreed that this wench was about as attractive as a whale that really let itself go. Yet, they gazed at her hungrily, for an Aztec coin, that piece of gold they valued above all else, was dangling conspicuously between the wench's enormous bosoms.

For a moment or two the whole group did nothing but stare at this wonder of the nautical world. The wench, on the other hand, had spared them no more than a single look. Taking out a shabby flowery fan, she opened it with a snap and began to fan herself, batting her heavily-painted eyelids as she looked about all the commotion.

"Orders, Cap'n?" Twigg asked somewhat hesitantly.

"Think I'll go have a word with the lovely lady," Barbossa said after a minute or two.

"What is there to talk about?" Kohler hissed, licking his lips. "I say we take her into the alley, get the coin and get rid of the bitch. It would be doing a grand favor to the establishment."

"I am sorely tempted to do _meself _a favor and take ye into the aforesaid alley, Master Kohler," Barbossa replied. "Grievous as our cursed state is, I doubt that being hung by yer guts from the mainmast will be any manner of improvement for yer condition."

Leaving a disgruntled Kohler and his crew behind, Barbossa made his way towards the enormous wench. Once he approached her, the pirates saw Barbossa give her a low, quasi-respectful bow. Whatever the two spoke about was impossible to catch, since every word of their conversation was immediately lost in the all surpassing clamor of the busy street, It was noticeable, however, that Barbossa kept at his best, flashing smiles and throwing about elegant gestures.

In all truth, perhaps he alone realized the vastness of the job still needed to be done. Understanding perfectly that not all the coins could be retrieved by cunning alone, Barbossa nonetheless wished not to perpetuate ill fame for the _Black Pearl_ and its crew. Not yet. Further along the way perhaps, when most of the coins had been collected, he could finally afford to throw caution to the winds and employ the very brute force and cannon power his crew was so eager to use. For now, they still had to be careful so not to alarm all those possessing the Aztec coins. As long as the truth about the coins was to remain hidden, getting them back was a much easier task.

"What d'you s'pose he's saying to 'er?" Ragetti asked Pintel, just as the wench gave a chortle so loud it made the passing horse rear and throw off its passenger.

"How am I s'possed to know?" Pintel snapped back. "I ain't the Cap'n, am I? 'Cuz if I were, I'd taken 'er out back an' made more 'oles in 'er than Irish cheese."

"D'you mean Swiss?" Ragetti inquired, grinning.

"I know what I mean!" Pintel exploded, punching the young pirate in the shoulder. "'f I say _Irish_, I mean _Irish_!"

Ragetti shrugged in a somewhat disagreeing manner, rubbing his shoulder. Gradually the grimace of pain on his face rearranged itself into one of thought. He began muttering to himself, while counting on his fingers.

"Thirteen," he interjected.

"What're you babblin' about?" Pintel grumbled, his attention still on the captain and the wench.

"Thirteen coins," Ragetti said. "Once we 'ave this one, we'll 'ave thirteen coins."

"So?" Pintel demanded gruffly.

"Thirteen's s'pposed t'be an unlucky number," Ragetti explained.

Pintel's face twisted in disbelief.

"We're already cursed," he said incredulously. "I don't think it matters if you're cursed. How much more bad luck can one have?!"

Ragetti scratched his head thoughtfully. After a minute, he shrugged, evidently having found not a counterargument. Pintel nodded superiorly, crossing his arms.

"Still think 'tis bad luck," Ragetti muttered defiantly, earning yet another punch. Just as Ragetti was rubbing his shoulder again, Barbossa rejoined the group. The expression on the captain's face was a peculiar one. It looked suspiciously like he was trying his best not to laugh.

"Gents," Barbossa said, "the coin is as good as ours –"

The group roared in approval.

" – on one condition," Barbossa continued.

The roar ceased at once as the pirates looked questioningly at their captain.

"As ye all know, ladies here have grown quite accustomed to tradin' favors for gold," Barbossa explained. A few pirates laughed and whistled. "This one is no exception. Lovely Madam Rosa finds the _medallion_ an engagin' trinket, yet she'll be willing to hand it over in exchange for a _favor_."

As Barbossa spoke, his smile widened with wicked amusement at the look of horror that united all his party. They seemed to be as willing to entertain the _l__ovely _Madam Rosa as they would to shake hands with the captain of the_ Flying Dutchman_.

"That's sendin' us to our death, that is!" Pintel found his voice first.

"Seein' that ye're immortal, Mater Pintel," Barbossa cut off, "I be quite unconcerned for yer safety."

Looking over the silent crew, Barbossa's grin widened even further.

"Havin' been blessed with the finest crew in the Caribbean," he spoke finally, "I had hoped dearly for a volunteer to relieve me of the sad duty of havin' to do this."

Having said that, Barbossa turned and beckoned the wench towards him. As she approached, drifting through the crowd like an iceberg through the waters of the Atlantic, Barbossa ordered his apprehensive crew to line up. The pirates had not even the right to grumble, knowing perfectly well that the next one complaining would suffer Barbossa's full wrath. They, who never knew sea sickness, rapidly turned various shades of clammy green as Madam Rosa drew nearer. The lot of them looked remarkably like they were on their way to the gallows.

"The finest of me crew are at yer service, M'Lady," Barbossa bowed. "What be yer pleasure?" The corners of his mouth trembled as he spoke as he strove to keep his mirth concealed.

The men recoiled involuntarily as the wench floated along the line, inspecting them like a general before the parade. Some pirates got no more than a single glance and seemed immensely relieved at the fact. Her hands on her hips, Madam Rosa walked along the line of pirates, sometimes trying one or the other for sturdiness by laying her bear-sized hand on their shoulders or even going as far as to check their teeth. She lingered by Twigg, whose face drained rapidly of all color. He almost collapsed in relief as Madam Rosa finally wrinkled her nose and left him be.

As she drew closer, Ragetti, who had been already deeply engaged in chewing on his fingernails, started taking shallow, rapid breaths. With only him and Pintel remaining, his chances of getting out of this scrape in once piece had plummeted. As Madam Rosa came closer still, the young pirate looked back and forth, right and left, comparing a violent death underneath the wench's bulk with the anger of his captain, trying his best to determine whichever of those two was the lesser of two evils. Having decided on the latter, he prepared himself for bolting at the moment's notice.

Luckily for him, Ragetti never found out whether one was worse than the other, since Madam Rosa came to a halt in front of Pintel. Giving him an appraising look, the wench smiled suddenly, revealing very few teeth behind her thickly-painted lips. With speed surprising for someone of her composition, she grabbed him one-handedly by the neck of his shirt. The tatty fabric of Pintel's attire groaned in horror as Madam Rosa lifted the pirate clean off his feet and pulled him into a forceful kiss.

Bloodthirsty pirates, all to one worth their salt, recoiled at the sight of Pintel, flailing like a fly in a web and making mousy noises in his throat, and the wench, whose ambition was evidently to suck out his very life with her kiss. Once she had dropped him roughly to the ground, Pintel nearly fell over, gasping for air.

"This 'un," Madam Rosa grunted, leering.

Barbossa bowed obligingly.

"Me payment," Barbossa demanded pleasantly, beckoning with the two fingers of his open gauntleted palm.

Without looking, Madam Rosa tore the medallion from her neck and shoved it into Barbossa's hand. Without further ado, she grabbed Pintel by his shirt again and dragged him across the road and towards the building. The pirate tried to fight at first, yet Madam Rosa dragged him along with the same determination and force an ant drags forth a dead caterpillar. Up the stairs they went, past the giggling women, and were swallowed at once by the brothel. The pirates that remained on the street maintained a shocked silence.

"I believe Master Pintel here is about to settle his blood debt," Barbossa joked, his eyebrows twitching.

He laughed first, his deep, measured laughter infecting the rest. They were beside themselves, having added one more Aztec coin to their trove, not to mention simply ecstatic at having not been chosen.

Carefully, Barbossa looked over the cursed coin upon his palm. A thick circle of rich gold gleamed in his fingers, dread looming in the dark eye-sockets of the Aztec skull. Such a tiny thing, so much desired and sought after, it was yet another step out of 882, a step to freedom that could not come soon enough.

He raised the coin into the air for the rest of the group to see. The seven remaining pirates surrounding him roared with triumph. This was exactly what Barbossa wanted: to keep the crew happy, perhaps even overly so, with the results of their hunt. Elated due to their luck, they would not have the time to brood over their wretched fate and, what was more, blame him for it.

Smiling knowingly, Barbossa tucked the coin carefully into his waistcoat pocket.

"Gents," he called out, "for now, our business here is all but concluded. We sail at dawn!"

Making it plain that the late party would be left behind without being spared a second thought, Barbossa left the crew to their own devices. Cursed or not, the pirates quickly disappeared into the crowd of women. Only Ragetti remained where he was, stealing an occasional glance at the door of the brothel behind which Pintel had disappeared and giggling uncontrollably.

*~*

Much more than half an hour had passed before Pintel made his appearance. The cannon that served the same purpose in Tortuga as a bell would serve in a regular town, cannonaded eleven. Ragetti, who waited patiently on the same spot, was thrown into yet another fit of laughter, once he had noticed the state of his long-time companion.

For the man who had not yet left dry land, Pintel looked remarkably like someone who had just been violently shipwrecked. As he hobbled closer, wincing with every step, Ragetti saw a constellation of bruises that blossomed spectacularly all over the older pirate's face. A rapidly swelling lump and brutally kiss-bruised lips added quite nicely to the rearranged decorum of the older pirate's face. Pintel's clothes also looked much worse for wear. A right pocket had been torn clean off of his waistcoat, its right sleeve dangling by a thread. Choking in his sleeve, Ragetti thought that his companion looked as though someone had recently used him for thoroughly mopping the floor.

Moaning quietly and wincing, Pintel limped towards Ragetti and leaned against the same hedge with a groan.

"Never in me life," he gasped, smiling dolefully, "'ave I been so glad I'm cursed… Saved me from dyin', that…"

Upon hearing this, Ragetti began to laugh loudly. Whatever unscathed flesh that was left on Pintel's face, went a brilliant scarlet shade as he began to fume, despite being recently mangled.

"Towd ya number thirteen's s'pposed t'be unlucky," Ragetti snorted, observing Pintel with the same bright amusement a child observes the bearded lady at the circus. Letting out a frustrated growl that sounded quite pitiful at the moment, Pintel parted with the hedge and slapped Ragetti up side the head with all the force he could master, yelping immediately at the pain the movement had caused him.

"Let's haul it," he roared, "I won't be left in port on your account!"

Both pirates, one limping and holding at his ribs painfully, and the other, overcome by a sudden bout of coughing that meant ot serve as a front for his yet another fit of laughter, made their slow way towards the harbor.

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Visit Intrepid Bandicoot's profile page to read more of her writing, including her fantastic _Elizabeth_ fiction about Sir Francis Walsingham, called _The_ _Heart of the Leviathan_.


	2. Chapter 2

**~The Story of Coin Number 32~**

Written by: ChaosandMayhem

Beta: Nytd

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This story is full of ideas.

Now, as any good philosopher will say, _ideas are bad things_. Ideas are what have built nations, crumbled empires, ruined the life of many a man, and showered fortune upon many others. A single, innocuous, seemingly fleeting idea has the potential to cause the universe to collapse in upon itself if one does not handle the idea with care.

Indeed, it seemed that mankind would have been far better off in long run had it not been for whichever fish had the dim-witted idea to hop out of the water and onto land.

But, the fish committed the asinine act, the empires rose and fell, and ideas still occupied the minds of the great and feeble alike.

As previously stated, this story if full of ideas. Moreover, it started with one of the more crackbrained ideas…

**..........**

"WILL YEH STOP THA'?!" Pintel roared, not for the first time, his fiery yellow eyes latching onto his younger companion with intensity designed to kill.

Ragetti's merry whistle died slowly. He titled his head to the side with bafflement. "Wot's wrong wif yeh, Pint? Don't loike meh whistlin'?"

"I 'ate yer whistlin'," the elder retorted. He returned his gaze to the crowded city streets, although his scowl refused to drop.

It seemed to Ragetti that Pintel had been edgy today, more so than usual. The one-eyed pirate wasn't sure if it was the thick crowds that clogged the narrow streets of Tortuga, the unusually hot weather, or a combination of the two.

Or perhaps it was the curse.

It had been nearly four months now since the crew's rather unpleasant discovery of the curse that had been set upon them—a discovery of gleaming bone and rotting flesh, of unquenched thirst and undying hunger. Ragetti was starting to get use to the extreme change when he stepped into the moonlight—but stubborn Pintel still felt the nasty shock.

Sighing, Ragetti looked to alternative ways to amuse himself.

This is where the ideas started.

Ragetti tapped his wooden eye lightly. After a moment he somehow managed to pry the small prosthetic out of his head, clutching it tightly in his hand. Pintel glanced over just in time to see his idiot of a nephew tossing the wooden eye into the air, catching it just before it hit the ground. The elder pirate scowled. "Wot the 'ell are yeh doin' now?"

"Entertainin' meself," Ragetti replied with a haughty air. "'Cause yeh won't let meh whistle."

"Yer an idiot."

"Yeah, well…at least I'm better lookin' than yeh!"

Pintel stopped short, his eyebrows arching with annoyance. "An' wot does _tha_' 'ave ta do with anythin'?"

Apparently Ragetti didn't know. He just shrugged and went back to tossing the eye into the air.

_The lad musta 'it 'is 'ead on some rock when 'e was a babe. It's the only excuse fer 'is daffiness._Pintel was attempting to comfort himself with this idea, but it didn't really work. However, it took his mind off his surroundings.

He absentmindedly swung his hand out to rub the back of his neck—

Only to have the hand connect with a solid object in mid-air.

"ME EYE!" Ragetti yelped as the eye Pintel had unconsciously knocked off course went bouncing merrily down the street into the throng of people. In an instant, the skinny pirate was on the ground after it, heaving people out of his way. "OI! COME BACK! ME EYE!"

The eye rolled off, never pausing to consider the frantic shouts of its owner behind it. It bounced over the boots and moccasins of the crowd, wheeling in and out artfully without missing a beat. It finally veered sharply to the left, into a darkened alley. Thankfully Ragetti was behind it every step, on his hands and knees, good eye locked solidly on the prosthetic. "COME BACK 'ERE!"

Pintel stuffed his hands into his pockets and followed slowly, slipping between people with more grace than anyone would have given him credit for. He meandered into the alley, arching his eyebrows at the unfortunate sight of his nephew on all fours. "Ragetti—"

"SH!"

A very long moment of silence ensued. "Didya jus' 'sh' me?"

"SH!"

"I WILL NO' BE SHUSHED!"

"SH!"

Irritated, Ragetti pointed towards the other end of the alley. Pintel followed his finger, brows being drawn together with puzzlement. There was the wooden eye, resting nicely. And standing right behind it was a—

"S'magpie," Ragetti muttered with a voice full of hatred.

The magpie fluffed its blue black-and-white feathers and dipped its black head in acknowledgement of the two pirates. Beady little eyes were burning with mischief as it studied the wooden eye, then Ragetti, then the wooden eye once more.

The magpie gave one sharp cry—a cry to Ragetti that seemed to be moreover a mocking laugh—before picking up the eye in its beak and taking off.

"NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! GE' BACK 'ERE, YEH STUPID PIDGEON!" Ragetti bellowed. He scrambled up, grabbed his pistol, and fired one shot into the sky.

This would later be classified by Pintel as bad idea number two.

Ragetti had never been the best shot, not even when he was fortunate enough to have in his possession two eyes. Now that he was only down to one…things hadn't exactly improved. Add to this sad fact that his hand was shaking with fury…

Well, it wasn't exactly a surprise that the bullet pierced through air five feet below the magpie.

Pintel snatched the pistol out of Ragetti's hand. "Yer a lousy shot."

"Pint! Pint, it go' me eye! Tha' bird go' me eye!" said Ragetti, considerably panicked.

His elder regarded him. "So? S'jus' an eye…"

He wasn't prepared as Ragetti rounded on him, one eye ablaze in fury. "IT AIN'T JUS' AN EYE! THA' 'APPENS TA BE ME EYE!"

"An'…tha' means wot?"

"IT'S ME EYE!"

Poor Pintel. The man was so very confused. Ragetti, on the other hand, was downright furious. "We go' ta find tha' magpie! It's go' me eye!"

"Yeah, I think I go' tha'," Pintel grumbled. "An' 'ow the fuck are yeh goin' ta fin' one bird in this whole bleedin' town?"

"Wif your 'elp." The reply was immediate.

Pintel scowled. "Wot? When did I ge' roped inta this?"

"Please, Pint?"

It certainly was hard to argue when Ragetti used that whiny tone of voice. The one-eyed pirate stared at him imploringly, hoping to yield some kind of friendly "yes-man" attitude from Pintel. However, the only attitude he got was a painful tug of the ear. "An' where do yeh propose weh star' this search?"

Good question. "Um…how's abou' the pub?"

Thrice now had Ragetti spouted inane ideas—in less than twenty minutes. It had be a record of some sort, Pintel was sure of it. He relinquished his grip on Rag's ear. "Oh? The pub? The bird was feelin' thirsty afta it snatched yer eye?"

Ragetti hunched his shoulders. "Actually…I'm kinda thirsty…"

**……….**

The bartender leaned against the bar and cocked an eyebrow at Ragetti. "A magpie, ye say? Well, those aren't too common, boy. Are ye sure tha's what ye saw?"

Ragetti nodded with excessive vigor, clutching his tankard of ale tightly. Next to him, Pintel looked a little bored.

The bartender sighed. "Are ye sure? Magpies…well, ye normally can find 'em to the north…" he studied Ragetti's determined expression, "but if one decided to set up shop 'round here, I'd say that yer best off checking the roofs o' buildings and the like."

Pintel spoke up for the first time. "An' 'ow are weh supposed to ge' up on the roofs, eh?"

"Yer problem, not mine." The bartender shrugged.

Meanwhile, Ragetti had pulled a small black mass out from his jacket. He was gently unfolding the cloth when Pintel bothered to glance at him. "Wot is tha'?"

"Me eyepatch!" Ragetti exclaimed as he fit the nondescript patch over his right eye socket. "I always keep it fer situations loike this."

"Situations…" Pintel repeated slowly, "loike this?"

"Yep."

The bartender and Pintel exchanged glanced as each wondered just how many times Ragetti had been in situations like this. Perhaps it would be best not to ask.

"C'mon." Pintel hauled his nephew up off of his seat. "We're wastin' time 'ere. No offense." The last was added to the bartender hastily.

The bartender waved his hand. "None taken."

Ragetti reached out to grab his tankard as Pintel shoved him towards the door, but failed. It was a pity—he was still thirsty.

**……….**

Outside, he and Pintel studied the roof of the pub with equally uncertain expressions. Ragetti shifted. "Uh…jus' 'ow are weh gonna ge' up there, Pint?"

"We? Oh, no. This one's on yeh, kid." Pintel smacked him on the back. It could have been interpreted as a friendly gesture, but Ragetti wasn't in the mood to think of it as such.

The one-eyed pirate looked around, hoping that a miracle solution would appear in front of him. Instead, he discovered a pile of boxes, apparently discarded by the bartender. With a small grin, he approached them.

Please note this as idea four. Really, Ragetti was on a roll today.

Pintel crossed his arms over his chest, watching as his nephew scrambled up the boxes in an effort to get to the roof. Interesting…Pintel was forced to admit that the kid was resourceful.

Ragetti balanced lightly one box before scrambling up onto the other. His good eye was blazing with triumph. "S'easy, Pint! Yeh jus' gotta—ah…oh…AH!"

The older pirate stepped to the side, allowing the younger to crash to the ground. He smirked slightly. "Didya 'ave a nice trip?"

"SHUT UP!"

Instead, Pintel roared with laughter. Ragetti scowled and proceeded to nurse both his wounded ego and his bruised backside. The one-eyed pirate glanced up at the roof with a troubled expression. "Well. Tha' rules tha' idea out. Now wot?"

"Why don't yeh jus' ge' a new eye?" Pintel demanded. His patience—which he had never actually been renown for—was beginning to wear thin.

"Because I can't," was the terse reply. "It's me EYE!"

Pintel was very tempted to smack the lad around the head. Goodness knows his fingers even twitched a little bit. "Yer drivin' meh up a frickin' wall," he growled. "Exactly wot is so special 'bout this eye o' yers?"

Suddenly, Ragetti became very coy.

Which was, essentially, another bad move on his part.

There were three things Pintel hated in life: sums, an empty bottle of alcohol, and coyness. The fact that his constant companion was now employing it against him finally snapped his patience in two. He punched Ragetti squarely in the jaw, sending the skinnier man sprawling on the ground.

In an instant, he was back up, curses spewing from him. Ragetti curled his fist into a ball, ready to punch Pintel square in the mouth, knocking those blackened teeth backwards into his thick skull—

When, out of nowhere, a black-and-white blur dived out of the sky and landed on the rooftop of the pub.

Both pirates suddenly forgot their fury towards each other and joined it in equal fury directed towards the magpie. The little bird had its head tilted to the side, as if wondering what on earth those two funny-looking humans were doing to each other. It issued a clucking sort of noise that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle.

"I really 'ate tha' pidgeon," Ragetti growled.

Pintel just groaned. "I think it's mockin' us."

The magpie bounced its entire body up-and-down with vigor in agreement. Ragetti lurched forward, preparing to put it out of its misery, but Pintel caught his arm. "If yeh kill it, yer not gonna find yer eye."

Finally, a good idea. Surprisingly, on Pintel's part. Funny ol' world, isn't it?

The magpie whistled a little as if to back Pintel up. It took off once more, swooping elegantly down the streets. Ragetti tore off after it. Pintel stayed put, looking around with mild disinterest.

"ME EYE!" Ragetti shoved a dolled-up woman out of his way as he chased the bird down the narrow streets. "GIVE IT BACK!"

The woman frowned in bafflement as the pirate took off, leaving naught but a cloud of dust in his wake. Pintel came up behind the woman, shaking his head. "I don't know 'im, I swear."

**……**

He later found Ragetti sitting on the beach, looking very miserable. "I lost 'im. Pint, I lost 'im."

Pintel wasn't fazed. "Well, yeh go' ta find 'im again, don't yeh?"

Ragetti just hung his head in dejection. "I don't fink so…" his fingers dug into the soft sand sadly, "me eye…"

It broke Pintel's stony heart, seeing his nephew so depressed. He wasn't sure what was so important about the eye, but if it mattered to Ragetti, it mattered to him. "Look, Rags—holy plucking harps!"

His yellowed eyes had wandered past Ragetti, down the beach, towards a small line of trees. There, sitting on one of the branches, looking as pleased as pie, was the magpie. "Look, Rags, yer a dafty moron! LOOK!"

Ragetti lifted his eye to the trees. "BIRD! EYE!" Jumping up, he all but dashed over to the magpie. Pintel sighed as he was left behind once more, waving the dust kicked up away nonchalantly.

The magpie studied Ragetti as he approached. The pirate stuck out his hand. "Eye. Give. NOW."

In answer, the bird looked towards a small pile of twigs and leaves some feet above—the nest.

Yelping with glee, Ragetti sprang up into the tree, scrambling upwards in a desperate attempt to get to the nest. One hand went, and the other, and feet scrambled for footholds. The branch was rough under his fingers and smaller twigs scraped his skin without pity. Unflinchingly, Ragetti charged upwards…

Until his left hand brushed a softer surface.

Gleefully, Ragetti peered into the nest; it was chock full of all sorts of items: buttons, earrings, small pits of cloth, even a small doll. But where was the eye? He pushed the doll out of the way, scattered the buttons, beginning to get worried.

And there!

There.

The wooden eye which had always caused him so much trouble and heartache was resting at the bottom of the pile innocently. Crowing in delight, Ragetti snatched it up. He tore off his eyepatch and popped the eye back in, taking delight in the familiar _squelch!_ that accompanied it.

He was about to climb back down when it caught his attention—a small shimmering gold, far too big to be a piece of jewelry! Curious, he reached for it.

Reaching for it was probably the best idea he had had all damned day.

**…….**

Laughter was the last thing Pintel had expected to hear, least of all the maniacal cackles coming from the treetop now. "Wot is 'e doin'?"

Suddenly, Ragetti dropped down, startling Pintel. "Look, Pint! Look wot I go'!"

Suspicious, Pintel leaned forward. Clutched tightly in Ragetti's hand was a piece of gold. And not just any piece of gold. It was an Aztec piece of gold. It shimmered brightly in the sunlight, mirroring Ragetti's expression.

Pintel wouldn't have stopped himself if he could—he smacked Ragetti twice around the ears.

"OW! Wot was tha' fer?"

"Fer givin' me a headache, tha's wot!"

The two started down the beach, arguing fiercely about Pintel's sometimes unfair treatment of Ragetti. The magpie watched them go with a puzzled look.

So, in the end, Pintel had a headache, Ragetti had a sore ear, and the magpie had a smaller pile of loot.

In fact, the only one who actually got anything productive from the day was the bartender, who, after a long day of work, went home and had a lovely cup of tea.

--

**A/N: Oodles and noodles of love to Intrepid Bandicoot for giving me the idea! **

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Be sure and check out ChaosandMayhem's profile for more of her stories about Pintel and Ragetti, as well as some of her stories for Repo, Harry Potter, Master and Commander, and Dragonlance!


	3. Chapter 3

**Man of the Dark Mountain**

**The story of Coin # 41**

Written by: Roland Trask

Beta: FreedomOftheSeas

--

Thunder roared from deep in the night as waves crashed on the distant shore. Captain Hector Barbossa stood at the bow of the longboat, his dark eyes challenging the coming storm. As his hand moved to grip the hilt of his cutlass, his gaze fell to the dark coast before him.

Rising from the sea was a megalith of black rock. In a flash of lighting, it stood silhouetted against the sky like the citadel of an evil god. Barbossa looked to the top of the mountain where he saw the dim glow of a light in a tower. His lips curled into a smile over his yellow teeth.

Behind the captain sat his shipmates, Pintel and Ragetti. Both nervously eyed the hooded ferryman who sat behind them, silently rowing.

The gangly Ragetti rubbed at his splintered eye socket and turned to his companion.

"That chap ain't said one word since we left the harbor."

"The squat and balding Pintel grumbled. "What does it matter? We ain't paying 'im to chit-chat, we're paying 'im to take us to Devil's Keep."

Ragetti scowled. "It's just impolite, is all. Why do they call this place 'Devil's Keep', anyway?"

"Because they say that a hundred years ago, this rock just appeared here in a single night. No one knows where it came from. They say the Devil 'imself built it for a sorcerer, who repays the debt with one hundred souls each year."

Ragetti's eyes widened, both real and wooden. "Does the sorcerer still live there?"

"Of course not, stupid! If he lived a hundred years ago he'd be dead by now."

"Well, maybe he used some sort of black magic spell to stay young forever."

"Oh, that's just superstition. The sorcerer probably ain't real," snapped Pintel.

Ragetti glared at Pintel and poked him hard in the shoulder. "It's not implausible. We're cursed with immortality, after all…"

"Shut up, you two!" roared Barbossa.

Both pirates gulped.

The four of them sat in silence until the boat came to rest on the black, sandy shore of Devil's Keep. Barbossa ignited a lantern and held it high, staring off down the beach.

"Stay with the boat," he ordered his crewmen.

Pintel and Ragettimumbled their compliance as their gaze once again fell on the ferryman, who sat still and quiet as ever.

"There's something unnatural 'bout him," whispered Ragetti.

Pintelgroaned. "Give it a rest, will ya?"

"This whole placing is unnatural," chirped Ragetti as he stood there fidgeting. "We should get outta here, right now."

"We can't get outta here," hissed Pintel. "Not without the gold piece. I sense it, you sense it, we're not leaving without it. Unless you're content to be an undead immortal forever."

Ragetti stole a glance towards the ferryman.

"If staying here another minute means winding up like him, I might be."

Barbossa made his way up the rocky and jagged path that lead to the mountain's summit. He trudged with his lantern held aloft and face set in a grim scowl.

A misty white light caught his eye suddenly, and he quickly looked out over the sea. From beyond a batch of dark cloud, the moon was making a desperate attempt to appear. Barbossa stood his ground, staring at the light with baited breath.

Just as swiftly, the dark sky consumed the moon once more. Barbossa smirked, and continued to trudge onward.

The wind became fierce as the storm drew nearer. Barbossastaggered up a steep incline, and looked upon the dark tower at the peak of Devil's Keep. It was built of cold, uninviting gray stone, and looked as if it had endured centuries of weather and siege. No port or opening adorned its walls, save for a doorway of black wood, and the single, glowing window at its top.

A sense of dread struck the captain. He knew something sickeningly horrible lay within, but if his curse was to be lifted, he had to go on.

Stepping towards the entrance, he passed by a tall shadow near the trail. His lantern revealed a foul scarecrow, a bull's skull with bits of rotting flesh making up its head. The bloody, tattered rags it wore lashed in the wind like angry ghosts.

"Charmed." Barbossa grimaced as he walked onward.

Coming to the doorway, he fleetingly wondered if he should do the polite thing and knock. Glancing towards the scarecrow, he decided that might be best.

He banged on the door, and heard its echo boom within the tower like an empty barrel. No answer came. Groaning, he tried a second time. When no answer came again, he prepared to let himself in, when he heard a splintering of wood behind him.

Before he could turn to face it, something solid smashed across his face, and sent him flying across the mountain top. Barbossa stumbled to his feet, wiping dirt from his eyes. Grabbing hold of his lantern, he searched for what had struck him.

It didn't take long to notice the scarecrow, standing on its own and towering over the captain. It raised its mangled wooden fist to crush Barbossa beneath it.

Barbossa dodged from its path, his cutlass singing from its scabbard. The captain roared as he hacked at the beast, but his blows did little more than mar its wooden skeleton.

The beast swung its fist down, slamming it into Barbossa's chest. The captain sailed backwards, landing hard on the cliff's rocky edge. A mortal man would have had his ribs and spine shattered from some such a blow, but Barbossa merely winced in pain.

The scarecrow stood above him, taking up a large rock. As the beast prepared to smash it into the captain's face, its wicked skull almost grinned in the lantern's dim glow.

Barbossa's mind whirred, and he saw the lantern lying beside him.

Not wasting a moment, the captain hurled the light into the beast's face. The scarecrow dropped its rock, howling in agony as the oil drenched its unnatural form. Consumed by an inferno, the beast tore off into the night, racing blindly across the mountain top. Its mad running brought it to the cliff's edge on the far side of the summit, and the beast staggered off, crashing to the rocks below.

Barbossa got to his feet, beating the sand from his coat.

"This isn't goin' to be a good night," he grumbled.

The captain marched forward and rather impolitely thrust open the door to the tower. A musty odor of dust and rot met his nostrils as stepped into the darkness. As his eyes adjusted, he could see he was standing at the bottom of a stairwell.

He began to ascend the stone steps, fighting his way through a jungle of cobwebs. From the corners of his eyes, he could see black, hairy shapes skittering from his path, but he paid them no heed.

Barbossadidn't know how long he spent scaling that dark tower, but it felt like an agonizing eternity. For as he got closer to possessing one more piece of the cursed Aztec treasure, he began to think about how it would feel to be whole again.

As each day passed, he forgot a little more of how it felt to be human. One more sensation, one more memory of what it was to feel, left him.

Someday soon, the undead monster would be all that remained.

Barbossa walked faster up the steps, until he found himself running. He pitched forward suddenly as he heard a wet crunch beneath his boot, and landed face first on a hard stone landing.

Groaning, he raised his head, and felt his jaw sag beneath him like a heavy burlap sack. He grabbed hold of it and forced it back into its rightful place, savoring the crackle of bones.

As he opened his eyes, he found himself staring directly at a doorway, an eerie dim light seeping from its base. He was close; he could hear the coin's song. It lay beyond this very door.

Barbossa leapt to his feet, and plowed straight though the door, cutlass in hand. He came into a large, domed chamber. The walls were adorned with the skulls and bones of men, beasts, and other grim creatures Barbossa didn't care to imagine. Tables were littered with books and scrolls, all riddled with arcane writing. Shelves were stacked with bottles and potions, and other paraphernalia of alchemists. But what caught Barbossa's eye was what lay in the center.

A black cauldron bubbled abovea roaring fire. The flames swayed from the howling wind which came from the single window on the far wall. Standing before the cauldron, silhouetted by the fire, was a tall, dark figure. Above the roar of the flames, Barbossa could hear him laugh.

"Hector Barbossa," came a deep and raspy voice. "Captain of the _Black Pearl_."

Barbossa squinted at the man, and dared a step forward.

"Beggin' yer pardon, sir, but have we met before?"

"I've never had the honor," declared the figure in an unnatural voice. "But you are a man I have much admiration for.

Barbossa glared at the man. "Then you wouldn't mind parting with a small trinket of mine that you possess."

The dark figure took a step towards the captain. Barbossa stared hard, but could not make out the man's face from the shadow of his hood. He gripped his cutlass tighter as the man reached inside his robes.

Laughing once more, the man produced a golden Aztec coin. A cursed coin.

"You mean this?" he said as if he already knew the answer.

"Yes, I do," said the captain plainly.

"Don't tell me you wish to remove the curse of the gods, for you and your crew have achieved what I have struggled for my entire life."

"What we have achieved is a living hell," spat Barbossa with a quiet rage. "The life we once knew is a shadow. We are walkin' dead men."

He moved closer the figure, prepared to run him though if need be.

"But you are _immortal_," said the dark man. "Your secret betrayed only by moonlight."

The dark man reached for the hood of his robe, and revealed a hideous skull marred with scorched human flesh. Two rotten yellow eyes glared at the captain, and its black teeth gritted with fury.

"Mine is an endless burden," choked the Lich.

Even though he himself was an undead man, Barbossa could not help but be repulsed.

"The Aztec coin is bathed in black magic," said the creature. "And it is the key to my everlasting life. You are hardly worthy to possess it, for you see not its true potential. You are merely a pirate, whereas I shall be a god."

"Then be a god of _hell!_" roared Barbossa as he thrust his boot into the Lich's chest, driving him into fire. The flames almost seemed to rise to meet him, consuming the creature in a blazing light. As they did, a chilling noise filled the chamber. Not screams of agony, but laughter.

Barbossa's eyes darted about the tower, his blade poised to strike. As he spun about, he spotted the vengeful dead eyes of the Lich emerging from the shadows. In a flash of green fire, a black staff appeared in its rotting hand. The sorcerer shot forth, striking the captain across the face and sending him flying against the wall.

The jagged crystal atop the staff glowed with a ghostly light, and the creature's teeth curled into a demonic smile.

"I will show you true hell, Captain Barbossa. Perhaps then you will appreciate what it means to be immortal."

The Lich raised his staff, and sent a streak of green fire into the great cauldron. Molten cracks tore across its surface, and the birth cry of a behemoth sounded as it broke free of its black iron womb.

Barbossa hoisted himself up as the red eyes of the black furred horror fell upon him, its fangs gleaming in the firelight. What manner of beast or demon it was, the captain could not tell. It resembled the hideous crossing of a man, wolf, and boar.

The sorcerer cackled at the sight of his creation, and pointed his staff towards Barbossa as a man would sick his dog on its prey. The man-beast bounded towards the captain, its claws hungry to rend his flesh.

Barbossa leapt forward, ready to clash with the monster full force. He struck a mighty blow into its chest before its claws raked across his stomach. Barbossa screamed but did not slow his onslaught. His blade slashed across the man-beast's dark form, but no blood spilled from its wounds, only wisps of black mist. The captain quickly understood that whatever black magic protected himself from death, the same protected the creature.

Before he could decide on a course of action, the monster buried its claws into Barbossa's throat, and hurled him across the room. The Lich cackled once more with evil glee; his staff fixed upon the monster as if controlling a marionette.

Barbossa glared at the sorcerer through his blinding agony, and forced himself upward. Before the monster could pounce on him once more, the captain threw himself at the Lich. He struck at the staff, the source of the Lich's power. A thunderous snap filled the tower as the staff split in two. The crystal at its head shattered as emerald light exploded from it. The Lich shrieked as he staggered backwards, his body weakened.

With its leash to this world broken, the man-beast's form contorted and twisted where it stood, until its body burst into lifeless shadows.

The Lich wailed miserably as it slumped into a corner, "I could have been _immortal_!"

Barbossa, jaw set, marched towards the Lich, thrust his hand into the creature's robes, and wrenched forth the gold coin he carried. He gavethe gold piece a sour look he would give only his most bitter enemy, almost forgetting the sorcerer and his pathetic sniveling. To think that he and his crew must suffer so much grief over a chest of coins was a sickening thought. But even more so, was remembering that this was but _one_.

Barbossa was snapped from his thoughts as the tower suddenly trembled, and the walls shook with a frightening fury. As hunks of brick fell from the ceiling, the captain dashed towards the doorway. As he stepped onto the landing, he watched as the stairway beneath him collapsed into ruin. He was trapped.

"Ha ha! _You _may be immortal," the Lich called to him. "But not even you could survive the earth collapsing beneath you. This place shall be your tomb!"

The captain could feel the entire mountain quake, and searched desperately for some means of escape. All he found was the window. He raced towards it, and looked down to see the black cliff's of Devil's Keep and the sharp, jagged horde of rocks below.

"I can survive _this_…," he said, turning towards the sorcerer, latching onto his rotting neck, and dragging him bodily towards the window.

"Barbossa, _what are you doing!?_"

"…But _you_ won't."

With a firm grasp on the screaming Lich, Barbossa leapt.

Pintel and Ragetti sat on the black beach, chuckling moronically as they poked at a crab with sticks. They were both wrenched from their stupor as a deafening shatter came from the mountain top.

They shot glances upward as a green flash came from the window of the tower.

"Bet that has something to do with the captain," murmured Ragetti. Pintel gave a half-hearted nod as he stared transfixed at the tower. Both of them spun around suddenly as the hooded ferryman shot up from his seat in the boat, and began to howl like a wounded animal.

"What's got 'im all uppity?" Pintel complained as the ferryman staggered up the surf.

"It's this island," whispered Ragetti. "It's drivin him mad."

"Well, see if you can get 'im to shut it!"

Ragetti gave his companion an indignant look, and approached the screaming ferryman, taking cautious steps.

"'Scuse me… 'scuse me… ?"

The ferryman lunged forward, grabbing Ragetti's neck. As he did, the hood of his cloak fell back, revealing a white skull with glowing beads of green in its empty sockets. Ragetti loosed a scream of horror as he struggled to break the creature's grip.

Pintel charged forward, taking up an oar, and smashing it against the thing's head. The skull shattered as the dead skeleton crashed to the foamy waves, and the two pirates exchanged wide eyed looks of terror.

"What the bloody 'ell was that thing!?" bellowed Pintel.

Before Ragetti could reply, they both felt the entire mountain tremble. Neither of them bothered to wonder what was happening, they simply fled. Forgetting both the captain and the coin, they scampered into the longboat as a hard rain began to pelt them.

As they began to row, something rose from the dark water and grabbed hold of the boat.

"Oh God, what is it?" screamed Pintel in a panicked voice as the thing climbed aboard.

"Shut up, you two!" ordered Captain Barbossa, spitting out a mouthful of seaweed. "Now row!"

The two pirates did as they were told, and fought against the crashing waves. The roar of the storm and the falling rocks filled the night like a dying monster. The entire black mountain sank beneath the sea, as if the Devil himself were pulling it back down to hell.

When the black tip of the summit disappeared beneath the waves, both Pintel and Ragetti heaved tremendous sighs of relief, and began to row towards the mainland.

After a long moment of silently rowing though the rain, Pintel dared to ask, "Were you successful, Captain?"

A dripping wet Barbossa reached into his coat, and pulled out the Aztec coin. He stared at it solemnly, feeling both triumph and defeat.

"Forty one down. _Eight hundred_ forty one to go."

--

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Check out Roland's profile and chapter 5 of MotC for more of his writing for the PotC and Goonies fandoms!


	4. Chapter 4

_****__**TORO de la MUERTE**_

_****__The Tale of Coin 111_

_**Written by: **_FreedomOftheSeas  
_**Beta: **_Nytd

--

"_I once sailed with a geezer who lost both of his arms and part of his eye."_

_--_

It was the perfect day, bright, cloudless with a dry, fresh breeze. In the morning, the pipe band and its attendant passed, with scrupulous punctuality, at ten past eight. It was the last day of _Fallas _in Valencia, Spain, the culmination of a week's festivities. That night, at midnight, the statues all over the city would be torched.

His bullfight would begin at five.

If the Englishman saw himself as a captain, the Spaniard saw himself as a matador. In the place of the sea which obeyed its captain, the bullfighter possessed his admiring crowd. He fought alone, and he showed no fear; everything depended on his self control, and his smallest movements would be watched and judged by thousands.

In the _plaza de toros_, the people would meet the symbol of nature – the bull – rushing out toward the center of the space, dangerously scared, fleeing forward, menaced but menacing, and crossing the boundary between sun and shade that divided the ring like day and night - life and death. Though impoverished, agrarian, and isolated in a rough and remote geography, in the bullring, the people came together for what was a weekly ritual, the Sunday afternoon sacrifice. Therefore, the young matador was a prince of the people, a deadly prince who could kill only because he exposed himself to death.

By cape work and footwork, the matador would lead the bull into changing directions, moving toward the field of battle chosen by the bullfighter. Leg forward, hip bent, the bull and the bullfighter move together, entwined, giving each other the qualities of force and beauty, in an image that seemed immobile and dynamic at the same time.

Whatever the face of the matador, the people would always remember the quintessential bullfighter, Vincente Quintana.

Vincente possessed noble features – a firm jaw, taut cheeks, a small pressed mouth, a perfectly straight nose, finely separated eyebrows, and a clear forehead with a hint of a widow's peak. On his temples, the first silvery strands had appeared, but the centers of attention were his eyes, full of competence and tenderness.

In his long, delicate, but strong hands was a dark velvet cape that was usually draped over his dark blue jacket and colorless waistcoat. Vincente looked like a bullfighter, he acted like a bullfighter, and for one year he was a bullfighter.

In that year, he killed hundreds of brave bulls, and expected to die without a single scar on his body. So during each fight, he took up his position in the sight of the whole city, and he knew exactly what to do. His steps were calculated, and his movements were prescribed just as those of a dance.

Everything about him was neat and restrained, from his taste for plain expensive clothes in autumnal colors, to the formal but immaculate cut of his jet-black hair.

Before the sacrifice, he met his women in a very ordinary _meson_, a bar with tiled walls covered in paintings by Larry Eiler, donated from Vincente's private collection, and where hams dangled from the ceiling. Naturally, Vincente was assured the finest _criadillas fritas_ – fried bull testicles – by his manservant Darryl, a young boy of fifteen, adorned with a head of dark, wild curls and a set of brilliant blue eyes, along with a passion to please his _patrón_ at all costs.

"Let me tell you more about myself." Vincente grinned, enjoying the opportunity to talk about what he loved the most. Whilst he waited in the arms of two fair haired English _señoritas_, Vincente, in a soft voice with continual apologies for his English, told them of his background.

Truth be told, he only took up bullfighting within the past couple of years and against his own family's wishes. Originally, Vincente had trained as a lawyer, though he would have said, with a self-deprecating laugh, that it was lucky for all of his clients that he never practiced. Now, he was among the top fighters in the country, appearing in something like a hundred _corridas_ a year.

They asked him why he decided to become a bullfighter.

"Next thing to being Pope, it was the only thing I could do," he said, smiling, but it wasn't entirely a joke. "It was the most essential thing I could do with my life, for my people, but there are many people who think that bullfighting is brutal..."

"Bullfighting," he said defiantly, "is something that could not be done without passion. Technique is nothing without passion." He grabbed at his _camisa _as if wanting to tear out the heart beating beneath it, and show them the passion inside.

"You live your passion all of the day, you know. You don't have holidays, you don't have the weekends, the family, and you only have your _pasión_, _el_ _toro_, _la fiesta_, and no more."

"Are you not scared of the bull, Vincente?" one of the young women asked, lifting her hand to delicately slide her fingers through his hair. Clearly, Vincente didn't appreciate such a gesture of admiration, having combed his jet-black hair to perfection just hours ago. He tilted his head away from her with slight annoyance, but greeted her question with a smile, and looked at them both pityingly.

"Of course, my little dove. If I didn't have fear, I would be crazy. A matador is very intelligent and normal above all things! A brave person is not one who has no fear!" The two women were not sure if the vehemence was from the frustration of a highly educated, sensitive man continually forced to defend something at which he was particularly gifted, or just a demonstration of the pride and controlled aggression which made him able to do what he did.

All they knew was that they would never describe anyone who stares a charging bull in the face two hundred times a year as normal.

A few moments later, Darryl arrived breathless in the _meson_, holding a small bag. "Señor Quintana, there are no bull testicles today," he announced with a quick Spanish tongue.

In the far corner of the _meson_, a newspaper shifted and crinkled in the grimy hands of the short, grubby man who whispered, "There 'e is," to his rather slender counterpart, who was slightly distracted by the hanging meat.

Attempting to duck away from a ham as it moved with the afternoon breeze, the slender man asked, "Who's that, Pint?"

"The boy, you ninny!" Pintel grimaced, straightening out the newspaper.

Ragetti jumped a little in his seat and hid behind the newspaper with Pintel. "He's got it on 'im. I can feel it, can't you?" he whispered anxiously.

"Aye, I do," Pintel said, smiling rather deviously.

Vincente turned aside for a moment, taking in Darryl's words, and when he turned back, his politely courteous manner had slipped a bit.

"How is that possible?" He gripped the back of his chair. "What did you bring? Demostrarme!"

Darryl replied in a tiny voice, "Cerdo."

"¿Qué dice?" Vincente furrowed his brow. "What did you say?"

"Cerdo." Darryl reiterated, sounded rather defeated. "Lo siento."

_Pig_? Knowing his reputation with the señoritas was at stake, Vincente whispered between his teeth. "¡Estúpido!"

Observing the scene from afar, Ragetti whispered, "Well, that wasn't very nice. Mallot would 'ave a fit iffen 'e 'eard about this!"

"Mallot ain't gonna find out nothin' and no one's gonna tell him nothin', understand? Barbossa sent us out fer a reason, so shut it! Can't you see I'm readin'?"

"Readin' what? Spanish? Ya know ya can't e'en read English."

Although Pintel felt his fists trembling with the sudden urge to wrap his fingers around Ragetti's scrawny neck, that feeling soon subsided as a loud crash echoed across the restaurant from Vincente's table.

Fortunately for Darryl, Vincente seemed to have kept his composure, or as much as he could have kept, considering the glass he had just crushed in his hand. He exhaled calmly, and reassured the young ladies that they would receive an even more extraordinary meal than what he had promised – which was far from the truth – but he had no choice. He nodded in approval, and with a flick of his fingers, sent Darryl back into the kitchen to prepare the meal, which reappeared quite soon, sliced and fried and ready for its hot-tempered patrón.

Once Darryl was out of sight again, Vincente returned to his soft-spoken, almost solemn politeness, kissing each woman's hand, and inviting them to see him fight that day from his private balcony, while apologizing about the disappointing meal due to Darryl's incompetence.

"Please accept my many apologizes about the boy, he does not listen too well. But he is – how do you say – _un niño de dios_, sent to me, and now I must take care of him. Teach him right and wrong, like the father he never had," Vincente said, dividing his attention between the two women, who seemed to swoon at his words.

Though Darryl wasn't; he was not sent or given to Vincente for a divine purpose. Darryl was the bastard child of a gypsy woman and a sailor, and suffered greatly from poverty. Nevertheless, he was a hopeful matador in training, living in the shadow of his _patrón_, and awaiting the day that he would finally receive the lessons he'd longed for. However, payment for such lessons consisted of servitude – cleaning, cooking, washing and mending clothing, and assuring that preparations for each fight had been executed in a manner that his _patrón_ approved of.

At the same time, punishments were never scarce or merciful, and part of Darryl knew he'd be receiving a harsh lashing that day; there was no running from that, it was only a matter of time. Though there was no reason to explain such detail to the women, it was not relevant to the matter at hand.

After much protest from the women, Vincente slid gracefully out of the _meson_ and into the street, leaving the women along with a plate of pig's testicles, by then greasy, congealed, and seemingly not-so-appetizing.

---

It was a bright afternoon; too hot a sun to face shadeless Valencia. Darryl spent most of the early afternoon sitting on the balcony over the arena, watching the pretty tiny boats as they skimmed over the distant green sea, and the local boys flying their kites, of which he counted as many as fourteen up in the air. He sighed, wishing he could join the group in their games.

"Any wind?" Vincente asked anxiously. If he had not been so completely laced into his suit, he would have liked to have gone to the bathroom. Someday, he thought, a bull's horn was going to hit him in the bladder and the damned thing wouldn't be empty. "¿El viento, Roberto?" he asked again.

"No, Señor Quintana," replied the valet, a small, dark, gnome-like, older man with very black hair and thick eyebrows.

The matador left his chair and went to the balcony; the trees in the park were blowing as if in a gale. He asked for a cigarette and disappeared into the bathroom, leaving the two ladies from the _meson_ standing by the balcony with the valet and Darryl, unaware that they were being watched.

Shifting their way through the crowd, Ragetti asked, "Is that 'im all the way up there?" as he shielded his eyes from the sun. Two women appeared on the balcony alongside Darryl.

"Yeah," Pintel followed his line of sight and smiled. "Well, 'ello, poppets."

"Ol' bastard sure knows 'ow to pick 'em!" Ragetti whistled through his teeth.

With haste, Pintel pulled him back behind the corner of the building as they watched Darryl turning his head about from afar. "Don't make a scene or 'e'll spot us! On to more important matters, then. Do ya remember the plan?"

Ragetti nodded proudly. "Aye. We wait 'ere all unsuspecting-like until they come out, then when no one's lookin', we'll snatch the lad up! "

"While 'e's unprepared an' unawares." Pintel laughed deviously and Ragetti followed in suit.

"Then, we bring 'im to Cap'n Barbossa," Ragetti added, "and we'll be rewarded, o' course."

Pintel rubbed his hands together. "Handsomely, at that."

"Think those two lovely ladies would compensate me fo' me troubles?" Ragetti asked, nudging Pintel with his elbow.

"You?" Pintel laughed. "By all means, ask 'em." He slapped Ragetti's back in jest, causing his wooden eye to pop out from his eye socket and into the crowd.

"Oi!" Ragetti yelled, swearing as he merged himself into the crowd. "Don't worry, I'll get it!" But in Ragetti's effort to scoot around Pintel to retrieve his eye, he tripped and fell backward into a group of boys holding kites.

Pintel tried to grab him, but the boys were still trying to keep their kites from crashing at the same time. In the end, they all fell with him, cushioning his fall as they landed with a thump on the ground, tangled wildly within the kite strings.

"I think Mother Nature came out on top o' this one, aye?" Ragetti said, trying to sound lighthearted.

High above the commotion of the arena, Darryl was left alone with his thoughts, biting his lip softly as the afternoon sun seared his russet skin. He could hear their excited voices in the street, but he stood still as if he were in a trance. His hands were busy in his pocket, toying with a small trinket that he kept on him at all times as he continued to watch the boys and their kites.

He thought of his father – a man whose body and spirit was long gone from the buoyant, cheerful streets of Valencia to lead a life on the open sea, and ultimately known more for his wrong-doings than anything else. Darryl was not free of such a conviction either; he had done wrong many times, same as so many other kids. Right was right and wrong was wrong.

However, it seemed that in spite of all his wrong-doing, weaknesses, and guilt — Darryl's father had given his family another chance. The trinket was the very last piece of the treasure his father's crew had discovered at sea, and was one of twenty pieces that he had given to his _esposa_ to take care of his _niños_, before he sailed off into the horizon almost six years prior, never to be seen again.

The gold pieces had been a true blessing, and his family had enough to clothe themselves, eat, and go to school for a time. But even the greatest treasure didn't last, and although he was sad to see the gold pieces disappear every week, his belly couldn't say that it wasn't well spent.

When Vincente reappeared, he smiled thinly and stood beside a small table adorned with pictures of saints and the Virgin. All bullfighters prayed before a fight.

As Darryl watched Vincente kneel before the table, he grew more confident in his step, knowing that his _patrón_ could benefit from whatever luck it might have left for the impending fight.

However, Vincente was completely preoccupied and paid the boy no mind as he drew near. All things considered, Vincente had not been entirely normal that evening; his hands and body kept repeating systematic movements, crossing his shoulders, whispering prayers as he kissed his hands in the name of the Lord.

It wasn't until Darryl's shadow loomed over him that Vincente abruptly stopped his prayers. "Roberto, you see this kid?" Vincente said, clearly annoyed by Darryl's presence. "Niño. ¿Qué quieres? Can you not see that I am speaking with the Lord?"

"Es para ti, Señor."

"¿Qué es ésto? What do you bring me?" Vincente crinkled his nose as he examined the coin closely, letting his eyes trace over the etchings of ancient symbols, and the skull that smiled treacherously back at him.

The sun passed behind a cloud and he felt cold and shivered. His senses cleared again for a minute or two and he was frightened and miserable, as if the coin had frozen his insides and caused his body to feel hollow. For a moment, he was lost to the point where he was frightened to hear Darryl's reassuring voice. "Para ti."

He stared listlessly at Darryl, his face drained of any color. "I'm playing with my life every night, and this is what you give me? ¡El diablo! El diablo está en esta moneda…"

Vincente raised his hand with steady conviction and Darryl flinched, shutting his eyes as he prepared for the worst, but it never came. He was grateful to have been spared of such embarrassment, but surprised all the same.

Vincente stood rigidly, looking dazed as if he felt nothing. He blinked his eyes, unsure of himself for a moment.

Roberto couldn't help but be concerned with the time. It was nearly five and Vincente was not ready for the fight to begin just yet. "Señor Quintana," Roberto said, looking down at his pocket watch.

His words dropped and the room fell quiet again.

Vincente's hand dropped and he suddenly felt so alone, shadows were surrounding him, and his soul became dense with blackness. Then came the voices, cold and tempting, calling out to him with words that spoke of greed, calamity, and a lust for blood.

When Roberto drew near, he stretched out his hand and touched Vincente's shoulder. "Señor Quintana?"

The voices stopped at once and sneered at the disturbance. So did Vincente.

"¿Qué quieres?" Vincente asked aggressively. "Did you not hear me? What do you want, Roberto?"

"It is quarter past four, Señor. The people await your grand entrance."

"_La gente_…" Vincente repeated slowly, realizing his purpose again. He squeezed the gold coin tightly within his palm as he turned to confront Darryl, before leaving the room. "After the fight, I will be back for you. You hear me, niño?" Darryl shook his head nervously.

Without another word, Vincente stormed out of the room, with Roberto trailing not too far behind.

Darryl could not run or hide from what was to come, so he did the only thing he knew how to do – serve. The visibly shaken Darryl offered the two fair haired _señoritas_ from the _meson_ various drinks and pieces of sliced sausage, and quietly advised them to keep their mouth slightly open during the show, seeing that it took the strain off their ears. The two women patted his hair and shoulders reassuringly before he left to join the Roberto at the barrier, which brought a small smile to his worried face.

About ten thousand natives were crowded into the place. In the centre of the arena, the men who lit the fireworks were working quietly away, checking the packages of explosives, and loading up rows of mortars. Vincente and the _banderilleros_ were to kill three bulls at intervals of twenty minutes. When he had exhibited his shape and his graveyard face, he gave the signal to let the first bull in.

The stockade gate opened slowly and a hush came over the crowd. Three shells fired high into the air, signaling the start of the onslaught. The fuses were ignited, releasing a thunderous wall of sound that rolled toward the crowd. One huge blast followed another, hurling shockwaves through the square, strong enough to send hats flying, and jackets flapping. Just when the crowd thought they couldn't take anymore, the big mortars started to blow with such force that one could only hang on and let them thrill and terrify.

A final ferocious sound was fed by thunderous explosions on the ground, and soaring shell-bursts in the air built into a relentless, ear-splitting symphony, and with one last mighty salvo, stopped as suddenly as they began.

For a fragment of time, complete silence fell, and then with a great cry, the crowd spilled through the street and raced to the fence to salute Vincente, who emerged from white smoke like a legendary hero.

Suddenly, the bull paused as it came out of the dark and into the light, then made a dash for the _picadores_ that were scattered about the arena, but the bull caught one horse and gored it. Then he wheeled and went for another, but missed it.

Finally _banderilleros_ put in two or three barbs, and then Vincente killed the bull as if it had been a tamed sheep. The second bull was no better and he threw down his sword in disgust. "Is this what you bring me?" he yelled. "Is this all Valencia has to offer?"

As for the two women, they surely were making a show for their darling Vincente. "He's so brave!" they said. "See how he wants to kill so badly!" They drew their fans to their throats.

He hoped that the next bull would be a good one. Then, as the gate opened for a third time, a huge black and white beast bounded forth, and whirled around twice like a top as a _picador_ dashed by and pricked the bull with his lance. Then, the bull was set loose.

At the far corner of the arena, the bull caught up and rammed the _picadore's_ horse against the stockade with the force of ten cannonades. Then, he simply trotted away as his victims dropped to the ground, limp and crumpled.

There being no more worlds to conquer, the bull stood in the center of the arena looking like the monarch of all. He tossed his dripping horns and snorted, bellowing for the _banderilleros_ to come in, but they refused. The crowd began to scream, "El matador, el matador! Vincente, Vincente!"

It was his turn; the death trumpet was sounded. The crowd hooted and yelled as Vincente decided to vault back into the ring. The people would have torn him in pieces had he refused. A reputation for bravery was sometimes a dangerous thing. Vincente adjusted his sword in his right hand and his scarlet cloth in his left, holding the gold coin that Darryl had given him tightly in his fist. The coin longed for blood, and Vincente was ready and willing to provide it with its long awaited satisfaction. The bull eyed him in amazement and for a moment, they stood looking at each other. Then, the bull launched himself forward like a catapult.

Quick as a cat, the bull was after him, with eager horns lowered to pin him to the ground. Vincente uttered a yell of despair and rolled to his feet in the nick of time, and the chase continued. Once, Vincente stood undecided as the bull charged him, but when the horns were lowered to toss him into eternity, he vaulted clear over the animal's neck and got away.

The bull tore up the dirt as he wheeled and came at his enemy with renewed energy. It seemed now that it was all up to the matador. His knees were bent with weariness and terror, but fear lent wings to his feet and he kept on. Around and across they went, the bull almost treading on Vincente's heels or grazing him with his horns. For not a fraction of a second could he get leeway enough to scale the barrier.

With a yell, Vincente threw his sword, dropped his cloak, and fled. No mortal could have stopped the rush of that bull with anything less than cannon fire, and Vincente knew it. But the crowd did not. He showed his good sense in running from it, but the way the crowd let loose on him was shameful. His reputation was snuffed out in a second.

Suddenly in a spurt, the bull pricked his calf, and Vincente let out yell after yell as he leaped aside and circled in agony. It was apparent that all the man's nerve had gone. The crowd hooted its derision, but at last, the end came.

Vincente lost his footing and fell beneath the four feet of the bull. It showed no mercy, stomping relentlessly upon his defenseless body, tearing clothing and flesh in its fury. The _picadores,_ seeing the fight turn for the worst, made an attempt to slay the bull themselves. One had managed to jab a lance between the bull's shoulder blades, which bounced up and down in the wound as the bull walked.

With the sword in its entrails, the bull weaved about the arena in pain. Its back was covered in blood where it had been stabbed, and the _picadores_ that had been caught in the bull's rage, along with Vincente, were slick with blood.

When it dawned on the bull that its life was reaching its end, on instinct, it looked for someplace to lie, and eventually fell to its knees under the blistering sun and the eyes of the crowd.

As the junior matador in training, it was Darryl's duty to finish off the bull, if Vincente were to become incapable. For this he carried a short knife, which he would used to jab into the nape of the bull's neck. It seemed that one jab didn't cut it; the bull was still kicking, and out of frustration and fear, Darryl jabbed the knife into the bull's neck again and again.

On the third jab, the bull finally died, but that didn't stop Darryl from jabbing it once more for good measure. Darryl's tears accompanied the bull's blood as it dripped down his face, cutting clean runnels in the filth on his face as he shivered, trying to remain "manful" before the others. The band began to play lighthearted music, trying to divert attention away from the scene, but the crowd stood up and stormed the arena to view Vincente's body.

The bull and Vincente were both in a growing pool of blood. As the bullring servants hooked the bull to the mule team and dragged it out of the arena, Darryl and Roberto attempted to rush through the crowd of onlookers to Vincente's aid.

But before they could reach him, Vincente looked up to find two figures looming above him, and instinctively whispered, "Darryl?"

"What'd he jus' call me?" Pintel asked, wrinkling his nose at Ragetti shrugged. "Don't think you're in the position ta be callin' me names, mate." Pintel's greedy eye's scanned the ground around Vincente's mangled body until he found what he was searching for.

"Well 'ello there, darlin'," Pintel said as he picked up the golden object from the ground. "Thanks, chum! How generous of ya to have guided us to such good fortune, don't ya think, Ragetti?"

"Aye, saved us a lot of trouble, he did."

_The coin._ "No," Vincente said feebly.

"Aye, mighty generous of you, if you ask me," Ragetti continued, rubbing his hands together.

Pintel lifted the coin for inspection. "I reckon that ya won't be needin' this where you'll be goin', mate."

"Yeah, don't need it," Ragetti reiterated, waving his arms a bit. "I'd get those looked at if I were you."

A smear of blood covered the top of his arm, and Vincente stared down in horror at it.

"Don't be so glum, chum. It's just a scratch." Pintel tilted his head in false sympathy and waved. "So long! Mayhap we'll see ya on the otha side, friend," he said with a grin.

"Yeah, on the otha side!"

Pintel rolled his eyes, and pushed Ragetti through the oncoming crowd. "Shut it! Worse than a bloody parrot, you are!"

As their voices drifted away in the wind, Vincente began to feel fingers tearing away at his shirt, and it seemed that it was too late to save himself from humiliation. A man's blade, be it an inherited sword or a humble dagger, was part of his honor, but Vincente had failed miserably, had been bested and wounded, and to top it all, had lost his blade. It was a sure sign of failure, perhaps even a sign of cowardice, to just drop it and run. Vincente had fled from the bull, and regardless of his reasoning, he was a coward to his own people, and would forever be a symbol of dishonor.

The cloth and lace of his shirt and the flap of his breeches were cut open, baring the hideous wounds beneath and stained bright red over purpling puckers and slashes. His face was ghostly white, his eyes unfocused, and his breath was a faint, laboring wheeze, with small flecks of foamy blood on his lips.

At that moment, Vincente had begun to lose his faith; he lost continence, he lost charity, and he was despoiled of wisdom and understanding. The last thing Vincente could recalled before he lost all consciousness was Darryl's blood-spattered and frightened face as he kneeled down beside him, and he truly wished that he could hold the blessed boy even if it were just for a fleeting moment, after all he had been through to slaughter the beast from hell.

---

The boy walked far too reluctantly for his taste, with a visible listlessness in each step he took. It was obvious that he did not want to leave his home. "You know what they say, 'life is not a barrel of apples.'"

"Ay, Dios mio! Who says that, Vincente? Nobody!" the boy yelled, dragging their bags along the docks.

"I say it!" he countered defensively. "Now, make with the feet, my apples are going to rot at that pace."

Darryl stopped in his tracks and folded his arms. "No! You don't make any sense."

"Because_ you_ do not listen." Vincente stomped his foot. "_You_ do not do as I say, so you must go."

"I will not!" Darryl tossed his wild hair in the breeze as he turned his head away from Vincente's glare. "I do all the things that you say. I will not go!"

"Sí! Darryl, I will not have this!"

"Vincente, I want to stay and be a matador, just like you were!"

"No, no, no," Vincente interrupted, feeling his heart race as he listened to Darryl's protests. He looked down at the stumps on his shoulders and grimaced. Even though it had been five years since this the almost-fatal bullfight in Valencia, the memories still stung as if they had taken place just days prior. "It is too dangerous for you, Darryl. Look at what happened to me."

"Gah! You only lost your arms," he said, throwing up his own. "You can still hit me with your feet when you really try."

"Not hard enough," Vincente growled.

Darryl raked his hands through the curls beneath his cap. "You know everyone's starting to say that you are not the man you used to be."

"Who says this?" Vincente narrowed his brow.

"People."

"The people say this?" Vincente asked incredulously.

"Yes." Darryl grew quiet for a moment, pondering an appropriate retort. "Salvador got a horn straight up his _colitto_ in practice and he didn't even walk funny. He took it like a man."

"Oh, I'm sure he did." Vincente laughed. "There are a lot of things you don't know about Salvador and what he puts straight up his _colitto_…"

Darryl scowled. "You are _disgusting_!" he yelled, suddenly finding the strength to continue dragging their bags down the dock. "This is why I do not listen to you when you speak."

Vincente laughed triumphantly. "You admit it! Now, you must go. No negotiation."

"What sort ship is going to take me, eh?"

"A good one, I promise. It's-a very good. You'll get a lot of fresh air. Dalle, dalle, mijo."

Down at the docks of Cadiz, Vincente knew of the ships where he could barter passage for Darryl, if the boy was willing to work in exchange. Despite his size, Darryl could do the work of ten boys his age without a complaint. Yet, underneath it all, he somehow knew that he was only playing with a romantic idea, knowing that when it came time, Darryl would never actually leave him.

"Where are you going to, lad? Here is where you'll want to be."

Darryl lifted his cap hastily to find a man standing before him, with hair infinitely longer than any other man he had ever met. The man smiled ever so slightly, revealing a touch of gold in his teeth, and narrowed his dark eyes. He was odd, to say the least, and to top it all off, he reeked of week old stockings and wobbled like a lame horse. "Nowhere," he answered vaguely. It was by an effort, a sort of sharp mental tug, that he realized his immediate surroundings. "I'm going home," he said.

"That is rather better than nowhere, isn't it?"

"Ah, ha! Capitán Sparrow. We meet at last," Vincente said with a smile. Finally having caught up to Darryl, he bowed to the rather wobbly captain. "I met with your man, Joe-Josh-Jimmy-"

Jack's eyebrow rose. "Gibbs?"

"Si, si! Gibbs. It was a-him. I met with him last night about joining your crew."

"Is it you that we'll be having then?" Jack said as he curled his lip and leaned back into his stance, studying the man's condition.

"No," Vincente corrected, pushing Darryl toward the front with his foot. "Él."

Jack bent down to a knee in front of the boy and placed a firm hand on his chin, moving his bottom lip down to inspect the lad's teeth. "Strong, healthy lad," he murmured to himself, sticking out his tongue, and Darryl followed in suit. "Takes direction. Good."

Jack tapped Darryl's jaw as he rose to his feet, signaling for him to shut his mouth. "Before the flies have at your tongue, aye? Any past experiences on a ship, m'boy?"

"No, Capitán."

Jack frowned, but quickly raised an optimistic finger. "Answer me this, have you ever set foot on a ship in your life?"

The boy shook his head. "No."

_No?_ Jack bit his lip. "Have you ever seen a ship?"

"Yes, I see them all around us." Darryl heard Vincente chuckle in the background. "My father is a sailor… or was."

"Ah." Jack had no intentions of traveling down that road. He'd been there already – mostly dark, disheartening, not enough open sea or rum for his taste. "Thus, I can conclude that the ocean is in your blood then, aye boy?"

"I want to be a matador, Capitán, but _he_ won't let me," he whispered.

Jack looked back at Vincente and then back to Darryl. "Great," he said, furrowing his brow at the boy's deep blue eyes, questioning their familiarity. Despite the fact that he could use neither of them aboard his vessel, he decided to press on out of curiosity. "What's your name?" he inquired.

Darryl looked at Vincente hesitantly, noting that his _patrón_ had pursed his lips anxiously, looking as if the answer to such a question would be best suited with a fib.

But Darryl was not afraid of who he was, he had no reason to be. "Darryl Mallot," he finally answered with a bow, "Capitán Sparrow."

_Aha!_ That's what it was. He knew that boy. Regrettably, Jack had the pleasure of sailing with Darryl's mutinous, pestilent, scalawag of a father. Did a number on ol' Jackie, and a cursed man he became, or so he heard. Funny ol' world.

"Well, Mister Mallot, it appears that we can use an extra pair of hands, so to speak."

"¿Y él?" Darryl asked, pointing toward Vincente, who was visibly waving away with his feet and mouthing silently for the boy to not draw any attention toward him. "Nosotros. Together."

Jack brought an eloquent hand to his chin. "Son, it seems to me that you've got a fair set of eyes, have you not?" The boy nodded once. "Don't know if you've noticed, but your friend here is lacking certain basics. Arms, for instance." He lifted his own arms and wiggled his fingers. "Brazos."

The boy protested. "Soy sus brazos."

_Ah, so he lured the boy into servitude, _Jack thought, raising his still reluctant to take on the no-armed, part-eyed fellow, it would seem that he would still have the upper hand even with the presence of slight disadvantages. Despite the fact that it would take more than five men to haul the old bugger up to the crow's nest, where'd he'd be partly useful, if he were to lose the boy all together, he'd lose the leverage over Mallot Senior, and perhaps a shot at reacquiring the _Black Pearl_. Therein lay the rub.

Jack leaned back, placing his hands on his hips as he stalked forward toward Vincente, who flashed a nervously not-so-genuine smile as the pirate approached. "The boy. He says the craziest things. Loco, sí?" Vincente wriggled his eyebrows, leaning himself closer to Jack. "If you ask me, he's a little, ah, you know, _hooked_ to the bottle. Yes, hooked. A shame, no?" He made several _tsk_ing sounds with his tongue.

For once, Jack was at a loss for words, looking down at the stumps that were once the man's arms and then up to his good eye. "Uh…" He licked his lips, opening his mouth and closing it again. "Pregunta."

"Yes, yes. Pregunta, Capitán?"

Vincente knew this moment would come, so in light of the situation, he had come prepared. He inhaled deeply, mentally placing all of his thoughts in order. He had started as a deckhand for a pound a month on a ship that sailed out to the New World. He thought of the names of the ships and the names of the services he had provided. He must not forget to say that he was a very important man. Ah, and he could not forget, that he sailed the Straits of Magellan, and the stories of the terrible Patagonians. But then, great tragedy struck when he had fallen in Valencia, losing both of his arms, but he was too proud to give up, and decided to go to Cartagena to sail the open seas again.

It was a far stretch from the truth, but little fibs never hurt anyone before.

"You wouldn't happen to have had a run in with some_one_ or some_thing_ more than less than honorable, Mister…?"

"Laurenzo Aguilare Rafael Rodrigo Iñigo," he replied, acting as natural as one could when giving a false name to a known criminal of the high seas.

The dock grew silent.

"Larry," Vincente said pointedly, looking down at Jack's brand. "Solamente Larry. I am an honorable man, Capitán."

"Ah, a pleasure, Larry." Jack nodded, glancing over at a slightly confused Joshamee Gibbs, before cupping his hands behind his back. "So, allow me the privilege in inquiring how it is that you've arrived here in such … condition and in such haste to get rid of the boy, if it were not for something dishonorable."

"Oh!" Vincente exclaimed waving the stubs that were once his arms. "You mean-a this! Dishonorable yes, you can say such things, but I am sure that a man much like yourself, is not so – how do you say – _unfamiliar_ with dishonor. No?"

Jack smirked. "All things considered, wealth cannot be enjoyed without a bit of dishonor, or foregone without misery."

"Capitán, let me tell you about misery. Miseria!" Larry said, spitting on the dock in disgust before nudging Jack's shoulder with his stump. "Come; let me tell you more about myself. Sí?"

Jack crinkled his nose, maneuvering his way around Larry, but failing rather miserably. Luckily, a wave of cocked pistols came to his aide.

As Larry nervously stepped away, Jack pressed his palms together and bowed, finally turning to face the crew.

"Now that that's settled, welcome aboard," Jack announced flippantly, peering down at young Darryl for what seemed like a fleeting moment. "Pleased?" At the sight of the boy's excitement, Jack headed up the gangway of a rather small brig, flicking his fingers to part the crowd that stood in his way.

Vincente "Larry" Quintana followed Jack closely in suit, looking as if he had quickly taken a liking to Gibbs' duties, regardless of the fact that he had more than a dozen men staring him down the barrel of their pistols just moments prior. As he began barking orders at the newly acquired crew by pointing with his feet, Darryl couldn't help but smirk.

It seemed that the coin had brought them some luck after all.

---

A/N: Larry was initially inspired by John Turturro's character 'Phantom' in "You Don't Mess With The Zohan," with some extra doses of Spanglish thrown into the mix.

_Banderilleros -_The member of a matador's cuadrilla who is responsible for placing the banderillas during a bullfight.

_Picadores _- A horseman in a bullfight who lances the bull's neck muscles so that it will tend to keep its head low for the later stages of the fight. I really just tried to have fun with this!


	5. Chapter 5

**The Thief, the Pirate, and the Aztec Gold**

**The story of coins 301, 302, 303**

Written by: Dr. Sugar

Beta: FreedomoftheSeas

--

"What the hell do ya think yer doin'?"

A hand snapped onto the thief's wrist along with a hard punch to the skull. Stars lit off in the boy's head as he heard the plunk of a pocket watch and a few precious coins fall to the ground. Thinking quickly, the boy managed to bite the hand that held him.

"Jesus Chris'!" cursed the man, wrenching his hand free. The thief blindly scooped up the watch and gold and scrambled away into the darkened alleyway. "Oi! Ya motherless street urchin," shouted the man into the night, "I'll skin ya head ta toe if I eva catch ya!"

Laughing to himself, the boy continued darting through the streets, the watch and coins thumping against his legs. He turned sharply on a corner and slowed as he approached a rundown inn, the _Sea Dragon_. He was greeted by the barkeeper, who was polishing a dirty mug.

"Evenin', Michael," he said and spat into the glass. "Been workin' late?"

The boy grinned and headed up the stairway. "Gotta keep ya in business, Jim. Wouldn't want yer favorite customers to be cast out into the cold, now would ya?"

Jim laughed and threw his rag over his shoulder. "Tell yer sister goo' night for me."

"Night, Jim," called Michael as he walked up to the second landing. He stopped at the third door, dusting out his hair and pants before knocking.

"Hold yer shirt on, I'm comin'" A sixteen year-old girl answered the door. Her brown eyes narrowed as she took in his muddy coat and sheepish grin. "Michael Edmund Bray," she spat and pulled him into the room by the arm. The smell of roasted chicken lingered in the tiny room and made his mouth water. She shoved him down on the chair next to the plate, scowling angrily.

"What'd ya steal this time?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Ed, how can ya accuse-"

"Don't give me that," she interrupted. "You've been out all night and ya look worse than a pirate half-drunk on rum."

"Edwina just let me-"

She reached forward and cupped her hand around his cheeks. "Is that a black eye?" she asked suspiciously. Michael lowered his gaze.

"Yes," he said.

Edwina withdrew her hand as her face slowly softened. She pulled out her handkerchief and soaked it in the pitcher of water. Gently, she pressed it to his right eye. "This _has_ to stop," she whispered. "We're not beggars, I have a job."

Michael snorted and jerked away from her hand. "Some job," he said bitterly, "That ol' bird runs ya ragged."

Edwina bit her lip, withdrawing the soaked rag. "Things are gonna get better soon," she said, slowly stroking his hair. "We'll get enough money and then we can get a place of our own and never come back here. You'll see."

Michael looked up and gave his sister a half-smile. "I'm sorry, Ed." Edwina nodded and let Michael hold the rag in place. She reached over to the chicken plate, setting it in front of her brother, and pulled up the chair next to him.

"So, what'd ya get?" she asked as Michael promptly began stuffing food into his mouth one-handed.

"Inf moi fopet," he said, bits of food spraying. Edwina wrinkled her nose.

"What?"

Michael swallowed, and then pulled off the handkerchief. "In my pocket," he repeated, and tossed the pocket watch and a few gold coins onto the table.

Edwina reached to pick up the watch and held it to her ear. A satisfying tick murmured from it softly. "Still works," she said, placing it back on the table.

Michael picked up one of the coins; his eyebrows furrowed. Etched on the coin was a deathly looking skull. Strange patterns decorated the head like a foreign language. He held the coin closer, examining it like the cheap jeweler down the hallway. The skull's eyes were empty sockets staring at him. A tiny shudder escaped him. Shaking his head, he placed the gold down next to its brothers. They were all the same- golden skulls set inside cold disks.

Edwina held one of the coins to the candlelight. "Where did ya find 'em?" she whispered.

Michael scooted his chair closer and looked just as curious. "Off ol' Bill who couldn't keep his pockets shut."

Edwina made a "thwack" sound in the back of her throat. "Ya know he's gonna catch ya one of these days," she said.

Michael shrugged his shoulders. "Naw, he's always drunk every other day. 'Sides, the ol' rum-pot's too slow anyway." Edwina placed the coin back on the table; the candlelight shivered as it passed.

"Bill probably swiped these off a pirate," she said, turning to him. "I've never seen coins like this; they gotta be worth somethin' nice."

Michael's eyes lit up. He grinned happily at the coins.

"Don't ya get any ideas," said Edwina. She pushed away the chair and collected the empty plate. "Pirates are nothin' but bloody murderers. If a pirate finds out ya got coins like that, ya might be starin' down a pistol."

Michael frowned, fingering the outline of the skulls. The tips of his nails seemed to tingle as he felt the coldness of the coins. "Ah, Ed, ya worry too much."

"I'm serious! Those things aren't from around here; they gotta be valuable! Bill could have nicked 'em today, for all I know. Someone's goin' to be lookin' out for those coins and if they find out you have 'em-"

"Alright, alright," said Michael, holding up his hands. "I'll be careful. I'll wait a few days 'til I spend 'em and then they'll be someone else's problem."

Edwina sighed and glanced back at the coins. "Fine," she replied. "Just promise to get rid of 'em."

Michael placed his hand over his chest and made a solemn face. "On my honor, m'lady," he said. Edwina rolled her eyes, and then turned around to make the bed.

Michael took a drawstring bag and placed the three gold coins inside it. He tightened the string, and placed it over his neck. Edwina watched him curiously as she fluffed a pillow.

"You're goin' to _sleep_ with 'em?" she asked.

Her brother flopped onto the bed and kicked off his boots. "Sure," he said, "gotta keep 'em safe."

Edwina walked to the other side of the room and pulled a curtain across down the center to give herself some privacy. "I don't think I could do that. Those skulls would keep me up all night."

Michael turned his head to the hanging sheet. "What, are ya scared of 'em?" he asked.

Edwina's head popped out as she made a face. "No," she said coolly, "I just don't like 'em. They don't seem…right."

Michael cracked a smile. "Ya _are _scared of 'em. Ya think they're gonna jump out and getcha?"

The curtain snapped open and the girl crossed the room wearing a long, grey nightgown. She blew out the candles, putting the room in complete darkness, and crawled under the threadbare sheets. "Go to sleep," she sighed, and smacked a ratty pillow over his head.

***

_Piles of gold surrounded Michael. Everywhere he turned, he saw shinning treasure. His mouth began to water when he spotted a ruby the size of his fist. Mesmerized, he walked slowly to the blood-red jewel. His fingers had barely caressed the smooth surface, when a voice echoed in the chamber. _

"_Greed's already gotten to ya, boy," said the voice. _

_Michael spun around, his heart skipping a beat. "Who's there?" he asked the treasure trove. No one answered. _

_Looking down at his feet, he noticed a gold coin that looked exactly like the ones he had. He knelt down to inspect the coin. The grim, golden skull was etched with the same markings. Suddenly, the face twisted into an evil smile. _

"_We're going to find you," it sneered. _

_Laughter echoed throughout the chamber, hundreds of coins shrieking and jeering. The piece he was holding grew red hot. Michael yelped and dropped the coin. The voices were growing louder until he could no longer hear his own thoughts. He covered his ears and screamed at them to stop. _

_The room was heating up, flames bursting all around him. The coins melted into golden magma- cries of pain from the skulls. He was going to die here; he knew it. _

_All at once, everything vanished. The screaming had stopped. The silence was ear splitting. Michael twisted around, unsure of where he was in the darkness. His breath rattled in his chest. _

"_Part of the curse," whispered a voice behind his head._

Michael screamed and snapped up in his bed. His heart was pounding wildly as he let out a gasp of air. He was in his room, safe in his bed. It was just a dream.

"I said, 'move yer arse'!" said Edwina, next to him.

She was frantically putting her hair up in front of the broken mirror. A plate of dry bread and cheese next to her was left untouched.

"Michael, move!" she said, pulling the covers off the bed. "I can't be late again; Mrs. Embry will have a fit!"

Michael rolled out of the covers as he watched his sister flit across the room like a moth. She dived into the drawers, trying to gather the rest of her clothing.

"Oh, what am I forgettin' now?"

Michael pulled his shirt over his head. "Your shoes?"

Edwina glanced down at her stocking feet. "Oh mother!" she cried. She grabbed her shoes from under the bed and kissed Michael's cheek. "I'll put 'em on later, I have to go now! Have a good day, don't steal anything, love ya, good-bye!"

The door slammed and Michael was finally alone. He pulled the drawstring bag over his neck, taking out one of the coins. The face was still frozen in a grim expression. It had seemed so real… Michael shook his head and threw the coin back in the bag. He was being silly; coins couldn't talk. It was just a dream. He placed the bag back over his neck, tucked it into his shirt, and then laced up his boots.

The familiar smells of the market hazed through the air as Michael walked along the streets. The usual trader ships made port here to barter and sell goods. In other words, an excellent place to pithier pockets.

Blending into the crowds, Michael wandered among the old merchants and customers. A toothless vender waved a ragged bag in front of his face.

"Fresh spices from the new world!"

Michael took a small inhale and nearly doubled-over from the stench. _More like a dead rabbit found under the bridge_, he thought.

Giving a forced grin, he edged away from the eye-watering smell to a jewelry stand. The merchant running the place was busily digging through a chest full of scales. Whistling a happy tune, Michael glided over and smoothly removed the moneybag from the man's belt. The merchant didn't even flinch_._ Michael turned away quickly, only to end up colliding with a large mass.

"Hey, watch it," snarled a man.

He had ebony skin and dreadlocks that reached down past his shoulders. His clothes were brightly decorated with assorted jewels and gun holsters. Michael's heart leaped in his chest. Edwina's voice rang shrilly in his ear. _If a pirate finds out ya got gold like that, ya might be starin' down a pistol._

"Sor…sorry," Michael stammered and tried to get away.

"Wait a minute," said the man, and roughly grabbed Michael's arm. The thief twisted around, now facing the pirate. His breath reeked of rum, although his eyes were extremely focused. They were hollow and dead looking.

"What you got in the bag, boy?" he rasped.

Michael struggled to get away. "No…nothin'," he said.

The pirate shook him hard and pulled him closer. "What's in the bag?"

"I don't…it's, it's not mine." The man looked at him hungrily. His eyes glanced at the bulge in Michael's shirt.

"Where did you find 'em?" he whispered.

Confusion and shock crossed the boy's face. Thinking quickly, Michael tossed the merchant's moneybag into the air. The bag landed on the ground and exploded with a shower of gold. Coins hitting the cobblestone street filled the air. Instantly, crowds of people rushed to gather the lost gold, scrambling to the ground on their hands and feet.

Michael twisted himself out of the pirate's grasp and pushed his way through the frantic crowd. The drawstring bag thumped against his chest with every step he took. He ran down an alley, splashing puddles behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, the pirate was nowhere in sight.

As he reached the end of the street, Michael slowed and pulled the drawstring bag over his head. The three gold coins were still safe inside. Breathing heavily, he closed his eyes and held one piece tightly. The piece was icy cold, tingling his palm.

_It was jus' a coincidence,_ he thought. _That pirate wanted the merchant bag, not this one. He couldn't have known…_He opened his eyes and stared at the gold. The grimacing skull stared back. _There's nothin' wrong with this gold. It's jus' regular, ol' pirate gold._

Michael threw the coin back in the bag, tightening it quickly, and set his way back home. _There's nothin' wrong with the gold…_

***

The fireplace popped and crackled in the siblings' small room as daylight faded. The dinner plates sat unwashed on the table while Edwina rocked in a chair darning socks. Michael sat close by the fire, examining the coins from the light. He flipped the face over repeatedly.

As soon as he'd gotten back to the _Sea Dragon_, he'd locked the door and covered the windows with blankets. He was even going to push the table against the door when Edwina had come home. He told her he was thinking of rearranging the room.

"Ed?" he asked slowly.

"Hmm?"

"Do…do ya believe in curses?"

Edwina lowered her sock, her face growing concerned. "Curses?" she said, "Where on Earth did ya think of that?"

Michael furrowed his brow in concentration. "I don't know. It's just…well; do ya think things happen for a reason?"

Edwina pulled a thread through the heel with her teeth. "Course I do," she said. "That's the way the world works, right? It's fate."

"Well…what if, say I did somethin' and it caused bad things to happen?"

Edwina's eyes narrowed instantly. "Michael Bray, have you been stealin' again?"

"No, no, I swear! I was just askin'…hypocritically."

"Hypothetically," she corrected.

"Yeah, that. I was just wonderin'." Michael suddenly felt drained and empty.

Pursing her lips, Edwina eyed her brother as he got up from his seat. "Are ya feelin' alright?"

Michael walked over to the nightstand by the bed and opened the drawer. He pulled the drawstring bag over his neck and shoved it inside.

"Yeah," he said, "I'm jus' tired. Think I'll go to bed early."

***

_Gold…pirates…curse…death._

Michael gasped and woke-up in a cold sweat. His heart pounded in his ears as he shook his head and buried his face in his hands. This was the third time that night he'd had the same hellish dream. Each time he'd woken up more scared and confused than before.

Glancing out the window, he could just see the half-moon peeking between the clouds. Everything was silent except for Edwina's soft breathing. Michael flopped back and closed his eyes.

These dreams had to mean something, a sign or omen. _Edwina was right,_ he thought miserably._ There _was_ somethin' wrong with the coins. They ain't right- they're evil. None of this would have happened if I hadn't stolen them in the first place._ A twisted knot formed in the pit of his stomach.

What if he couldn't end it? What if the dark cloud over him became permanent? What if something happened to Edwina? His mind was set; he knew what he had to do.

Michael's eyes snapped open. Silently, he rolled out of bed and crouched beside the nightstand. Inside the drawer, the bag laid like a dead rat. He pulled it out, making it jingle softly. Edwina stirred as Michael gripped the bag tightly. Many tense moments passed before Edwina's steady breathing filled the room again.

Quietly as he could, Michael laced up his boots and creped to the door. He took a last glance at his sister's sleeping form before slipping away.

The streets were eerily silent- dead asleep in the middle of the night. Dark clouds covered the night sky like a cloak. Michael's breathing sounded too loud as he pounded down the broken cobble streets. Turning down a dark road, a cat hissed fiercely at his running figure. Soon, he reached the stone bridge in the middle of town.

He peered down into the black, churning water. The water ran right through the port and straight into the sea. _I must be mad,_ he thought. _Going through all this just for three measly pieces of gold._

Michael pulled the bag off his neck; the weight of the coins now seemingly heavier. He stared at the bag with fear and disgust. Leaning back, he begun to swing the bag like a windmill, ready to pitch it into the murky water below.

The sound of footsteps made him freeze.

"Are ye sure ye'll want to be doing that?" asked a voice in the darkness.

Michael gasped and fumbled with the bag. It slipped from his fingers and landed with a "clink" onto the bridge.

"Who's there?" he asked, trying to sound braver than he felt. He regretted leaving his knife back at home.

A figure stepped forward, his boots sounding heavy on the stone. "Names aren't important," he said, "but time most certainly is. Including what ye have there in yer bag."

The man reached the top of the bridge and inclined his head. Everything about the man screamed at Michael to runaway: his fang earring, the ostrich-feather hat, the jewels on his fingers. A pirate. Michael glanced at his bag on the bridge and slowly knelt down. His eyes never left the stranger.

"There's nothin' important in here," he said, struggling to appear calm.

The man chuckled to himself. "Then why are ye tryin' so hard to get rid of it?"

Michael's face slackened. "Well, it's jus'…I got-"

"I know about the gold, boy."

Michael nearly dropped the bag again as he turned pale.

"Wait, how do ya know?" The pirate shook his head impatiently.

"Alright, enough games now. The gold belongs to me and I'd be much obliged to have it back. Hand it over." He stuck out his hand.

Fear rose in Michael, shaking his head in disbelief.

"No," he said, his voice quivering. "No, this gold, these coins; they…they make things happen. Ya can't have 'em."

The man's eyes narrowed and a scowl appeared on his scarred face. "I wasn't askin' ye, lad," he said tightly.

Michael edged away from the pirate, cradling the bag in his arms.

"No, ya don't understand," he said, "These coins have a witch's spell on 'em or somethin'. They're…they're-"

"Cursed?" asked the pirate, arching his eyebrows. "Having strange dreams, bad luck followin' ya a bit? Those would be my coins. Now, don't make me say it again." The pirate smirked and pulled out a flintlock pistol from beneath his coat. He cocked it and pointed straight at Michael.

Instantly, the boy turned and scrambled down the bridge. He made it to the end before a pair of arms caught him around the chest and pulled him down. The bag of coins fell and burst onto the cobblestone. He struggled, but the arms twisted around until he was in a headlock. The smell of stale rum stung his nose.

"Funny, how we keep meetin' like this," rasped a voice.

Michael gasped; he recognized the voice. It was the pirate from the marketplace.

A fist slammed into his face; another to his gut. The bitter taste of blood filled his mouth. He couldn't see or breathe.

"Nice one, Twigg," chuckled a voice to his left. More laughter erupted. Michael's stomach dropped as realized he was surrounded. He thought of Edwina and the look on her face when she'd find out he was murdered by pirates.

"Alright lads, that's enough. We finally have what we came here for."

Michael blinked back the blood in his eyes to see the strange man staring right at him. In his hands, he held the Aztec gold for all the pirates to see. The men cheered in unison.

"There," Michael spat. "Ya have the gold. Now will ya let me go?"

The man smiled down at the bleeding boy. "We be quite thankful, young master. Ye've helped us get closer to endin' our curse." He snapped his fingers and the pirate shoved Michael to the ground.

Michael wiped his face and stared hatefully at the man. "What kind of curse?"

The pirates laughed to themselves again. The man walked closer and knelt beside him.

"A far worse end than what ye got."

A wind blew across the land; blowing the clouds away from the wedge-shaped moon. The town was bathed in pale moonlight.

A capuchin monkey scrambled up to the boy and screeched in his face. Michael yelped and backed away.

The monkey leaped onto his stomach just as moonlight brightened the bridge. Bits of skin and fur fell to the ground. Michael stared in horror as a decaying skeleton grinned back at him.

At that moment, every single bed was awakened by the sound of a piercing scream.


	6. Chapter 6

The story of coin #304

By MorganBonny

Fanfiction: Pirates of the Caribbean: pre-CotBP

Rating: K+ because of the lewd-mouthed pirates

Characters: Dueler, Katrina, Coby, and Marcus, (all OCs) and Pintel and Ragetti

Disclaimer: I'm not making any money off of this, just like _I_ promised, Disney gets a monopoly on ownership and canon-writing for these lovely charries, just like _they_ promised, and you get to read and review this fic, just like _you_ promised. So we're all men of our word, really, except Disney's Mickey, who is, in fact, a mouse, MorganBonny, who is, in fact, a 16-year old lass, and you, who are probably a mad fangirl. Savvy?

_A/N: Endless thanks to both damsel-in-stress and SirenoftheStorm for the very helpful betas and for helping me realize exactly how dreadful the last two paragraphs used to be._

_--_

He supposed that the knocker on the door must feel cool in the damp mist that obscured the night, but chill was a thing for mortal men to feel. To him, it was merely stiff, as if not often used, and disproportionately heavy. The knocker came down with three dull thuds and he glanced back at his mates for support.

"I don't see why we don't jest kick in the damn door an' be done wi' it," Pintel complained in a mutter to Coby, who nodded eagerly.

"Shut up," Dueler told him nervously, turning back to the door. He was wondering whether he should knock again, when the door was pulled open and there she stood.

Her loveliness had not diminished one bit; her long blonde hair fell about her shoulders from beneath a small bed-bonnet, her eyes were still a bright, sparkling blue, and though her large dressing gown did much to disguise it, he could tell that she still cut a slender figure.

"Thomas!" she exclaimed in surprise, followed by a girlish giggle.

The pirates behind Dueler snickered. He ignored them. "Katrina."

"Oh, you must come in, I haven't talked to you in ages! And it's so late! You ship out again in the morning, I imagine?"

Unable to come up with a better lie, Dueler nodded mutely.

"Then you haven't any time a'tall, have you? And who are these?"

"Oh," Dueler said hurriedly, turning around and shooing his shipmates with his eyes, "oh, they- they're no one, really, just, er, er, mates o' mine. No-no one, really."

Pintel rolled his eyes, but Coby took pity on him. "Sorry fer the intrusion, ma'am," he muttered, tugging at his forelock, "We'll be off, then." He took Pintel by the arm and led him firmly away. Pintel jerked his arm out of his grip, nodded at Ragetti to follow them and growled, "Don't keep us waitin', Dueler."

When they had vanished into the mist, Dueler turned back around, to find Katrina watching him with a smile.

"Wut?"

Her only response was a giggle.

"Well..." He knew that if he weren't cursed, he would be blushing like fire.

"Yes, come in, sorry!" She stepped back and gestured at the interior of the house. Casting a nervous glance at the heavily shielded sky above him and another at the dark inside of the house, Dueler stepped over the threshold and she shut the door behind him.

~^///^~

"-jest send us off like we're scum whilst he goes off 'n woos 'is lady friend!"

Ragetti giggled, kicking his legs over the edge of the wall. "D'you think 'e knows 'e can't...you know?"

"'Course he knows," snapped Coby, "like we don' complain abou' it 'nough. Though I woul'n't doubt he's 'ad little enough course t' find out." He loosed a high-pitched giggle and Marcus rolled his eyes.

"Alright, you stupid pansies, settle down. Captain says we're doing this Dueler's way and that's what we're gonna do. We wait."

They shot him murderous glares, but as usual, dared do nothing worse. The tall Italian leaned back against a post, spinning one of his slender, deadly daggers in his hands with perilous dexterity. He glanced at the short scar across his palm and breathed, in a just audible voice that was missed by none of the cursed company, "Begun by blood...by blood undone."

~^///^~

Dueler hesitated in the dark hall, feeling rather foolish and uncertain. He heard her moving around somewhere in the blackness and then the sound of a door opening.

"Kitty?"

A moment later, a soft glow suffused the room, and she came gliding back in through a door off to the left, holding a candle aloft. She used this to light several others stationed around the room and then set it on the table. "Sit down," she instructed, pointing rather forcefully at a chair, "and I'll make some tea." She stoked up the fire, put a kettle on to boil, and, with an excusatory, "A moment," swept out of the room.

Dueler sat nervously on the edge of the chair, trying to remember the last time he had drunk tea. He could barely remember what it tasted like. He sighed, drumming his fingers on the table nervously. He did not trust this cloud cover to last long.

Finally, Katrina appeared back in the room and he nearly choked on his own spit. She was much lovelier than he had ever imagined she would become, especially in the pale blue dress she had changed into. He had not realized that she had gone to get dressed. She giggled at his expression, and dropped neatly into a chair across from him.

She smiled happily. "It's been ever so long; I thought you'd forgotten your humble origins."

Dueler smiled faintly and glanced around the modest kitchen they were seated in. "Sh-should I be here? I mean-"

"No one knows you're here." She shrugged. "Helena's asleep, Mrs. Crawford is out of town visiting her nephew and I never was the subject of much gossip anyway. So long as you don't parade around on my doorstep, I'm not too worried."

"So I should steal out the back like a secret lover, instead?"

Katrina giggled and whacked at his arm. "No, silly, you should leave through the front door like a respectable caller."

Dueler glanced down at his shabby clothing. "Respectable. Right."

Katrina giggled again and Dueler grew slightly uncomfortable again. He was, after all, here for a reason. "Kitty, do you-"

"So, Thomas," she interrupted, "what have you been up to?" The teakettle began to whistle, sparing him an immediate answer as she got up to attend to it.

"Erm..." He tried to appear casual as she set a mug of steaming tea in front of him and one for herself. "Ya know, jus' reg'lar sailor work," he told her unhelpfully. "Up an' down the coast, back over to England an' the like. You?"

Kitty shrugged, doling sugar into her tea. "Not much has changed here. I've got another two years of indenture still to work off and by then I'll be a grown woman. I'm still not sure where I'll go." She shot him a meaningful look here, though what the meaning of it was escaped him. When he did not respond, she sighed, stirring her tea slightly morosely.

"Sugar?"

"Oh, uh...yeah."

She nudged the sugar bowl across the table at him and he took it reverentially, scooping one small silver spoon into his cup.

Katrina inhaled the steam rising off of her cup and smiled. "Oh, to have sugar in my tea...Do you know how long it's been? Mrs. Crawford never lets us have any, it's too precious." She looked doubtfully at the heap of fine white grains in the bowl. "You don't think she'll notice, do you?"

"No," Dueler said, pushing his cup of tea away. "Listen, Kitty, there's a favor I've got to ask you."

"A favor?"

"Yes." He swallowed nervously, playing with his spoon. "Do you remember, back when we had just made the crossing from England and I was still living here in town, indentured to that man Michaels? An' do you remember when he died?"

"Yes, I was only twelve at the time."

"An' I was on'y ten. An' the court ruled me free, as he hadn't any relations."

"Right. And that was when you went to sea."

Dueler nodded, stealing a glance at the cup. He didn't dare drink any yet, as he had no idea what temperature it was and he couldn't risk taking a swig of scalding tea and only finding out when it was too late. Katrina drank from her cup with a soft sound of bliss and he chanced a swallow.

It left a dry, burnt, ashy taste in his mouth and a raging thirst, but he could not taste the actual tea at all and he now wished he hadn't drunk it to begin with.

He grimaced and Katrina asked, "What's wrong?"

"What? Oh, oh nothing, I- I burnt myself," he lied, shifting slightly uncomfortably. "Anyway, Kitty, do you remember about two years after that, when I came to call? It's been about two years since, I guess, now I think on it."

"Of course..."

"I gave you something, do you remember?" His heart was beating rather painfully; he could not seem to look away from her face.

"Of course I remember, Thomas, what do you take me for? You brought me gold." Her eyes seemed to glitter a little when she said it. "The most exotic heathen pirate coin with the most horrible face on it!"

"Yes," said Dueler rather blankly, "Do you still have it, though?"

But he knew even before the words had left his mouth that she did; he could feel the magnetic pulling that had guided him up the streets to this house, company in tow, to knock on her door, though the four years at sea had not touched either his memory of this place or of her. He could hear it, too: that ringing, shimmering wail that grew in a cursed man's ears whenever he was close to the gold, and could not be gotten rid of. But it made him uneasy; the sound was tainted, it grated on his ears like a flat note in a chord.

"Thomas," she said softly, "the thing's got to be worth a fortune; if I'd sold it off, I wouldn't still be here. But more than that: _you_ gave it to me and I wouldn't be parted from it for all the gold in the world." She smiled and touched a small chain that disappeared into the neckline of her dress and the feeling that something wasn't right intensified.

"Well, the- the thing is," Dueler started, positively squirming on his chair, "the thing is..." He swallowed nervously and abruptly dropped the spoon. "I need it back, Kitty."

"You...need it back," she repeated, hurt flashing across her face, "but...I thought...for us...the future..." She closed her mouth quite suddenly, blinked several times in quick succession and looked away. "I'm sorry," she mumbled to her folded hands in her lap, "I shouldn't have thought...I had no right."

Dueler stared at her. He had no idea where this had gone all wrong, but now Katrina was refusing to look at him, the wail coming off the gold coin was almost sickening in its intensity and he could not help but feel that somehow, something had unalterably changed for the worse.

"That- that's not why I need it back," he stammered, "I have to give it back to someone!"

There was a very loud silence. "You mean it didn't belong to you? Did you steal it?"

"Yes, I mean, no, I mean-" He hated having to lie to her. "Kitty, I just – I'm sorry. I have to give it to someone. I need it back." Kitty was looking hurt and he searched around for something to make amends with. "I'll pay you the value in coin, if that's–"

"Money!" Katrina spouted. "Value? It was never about how much it was worth! It only meant anything because you gave it to me!"

Dueler suddenly lost patience with her innocence. "Do you think I don't know that, Kitty?! I didn't give it to you because...because I thought you would like some creepy coin! I gave it to you because it was what I had to give." His voice gentled. "I thought you would know that. I need you to understand that I need it back. I didn't want to do this either, but I have seen absolute hell over these things and–"

"These?" Her eyebrow rose and he could see her envisioning a succession of prostitutes and bar wenches with Aztec gold slung 'round their necks.

"Yes, these," he said, giving in. "Eight hundred and eighty-two of them. They were shared among the crew to be spent as we would."

"But where on – how did you...for merchant pay?"

"Oh, use your head, Kitty!" He took another drink of tea for something to do with his hands and began playing with the spoon again.

"It's pirate gold, then," she said very softly.

"Yes." Dueler could see her struggling to decide how to take this, so he jumped in with, "Life as a merchant was dreadful, Kitty, it just about killed me. So when...when Captain Barbossa took our ship and offered any hand as wanted a place in the crew...well, I took it. Please, I'm sorry, I should have told you, but...Oh, this is all a mess."

"Barbossa?"

"Aye. It's not all that the stories would say, though, Kitty, honest, it's not." He noticed that her hands were trembling faintly and her voice, when she spoke, was rather faint.

"Have- have you killed anyone?" There was a long wait while Dueler tried to figure how on earth he was going to answer this one and Kitty, taking the worst meaning from it, choked up with a small sob that she tried to hide.

"No! Kitty, I...Once. On'y once an' I swear, I never care to again. It was horrible an', well, I didn't really mean to, I just...I don't even know." He trailed into miserable silence, broken only by the soft 'chink' of Kitty's spoon swirling forgotten in her cup.

"You were never cruel, Thomas," Katrina finally said in a slightly shaky voice, looking into his eyes, "nor vicious or anything else, and I pray to God that these pirates haven't changed that, or I..." She broke off, apparently trying to decide exactly what she would do, and she looked so fierce at that moment, that Dueler really could see her marching up to Barbossa and telling him off for corrupting her Thomas. "Pirates," she spat darkly, sinking into a moody silence that Dueler dared not break.

After a long wait, Dueler shifted slightly in his chair and coughed. "Kitty?" She looked up at him and he forged on with, "I really am sorry, an' I never meant to go for pirate, but that's sorta how things wound up, an' I hope you'll forgive me that, but, well, I do...still need that medallion back. Keeping it is not an option."

"Not an option?" she repeated testily.

"No, it's not," he told her in all seriousness, leaning forward slightly, "I _need_ it back, Kitty. We have to get all of them back, all eight hundred and eighty-two of them. Every. Last. One." He knew that a touch of madness had grown in his tone as he said it, but he didn't care. He _had_ been through hell for them and Kitty's hurt feelings weren't enough to keep him from redemption. She didn't know the horrors he had been through while cursed, she didn't understand, but he needed it back and she was going to give it to him.

"And where are the others?" she asked softly, avoiding the force of his tone.

"Others? What others?"

"You can't tell me there were exactly eight hundred and eighty-two members of Barbossa's crew."

"You mean my share? Oh, don't be absurd, Kitty, it's neither romantic nor crude. I spent them on food an' lodging an' the like an' I saved a few o' them. I'm much too young to be whoring."

"But not too young to kill a man."

"Kitty...I grew up." The flatness of this statement seemed to shock her a little, but he plowed on. "That's all there was to it. I chose to cast lots with pirates because where I was at was worse than indenture. It was a fair choice an' I made it. I chose to kill a man. It was a choice I regret an' I wish I had never made, but it's done. Nothing is ever black and white, Kitty, you've got to learn that. I'm sorry if I've hurt you, but the gold must be restored." '..._and the blood repaid,_" he added silently to himself.

"Of course," she murmured, with a faint smile, reaching up to unfasten the catch on the chain, "I'm being stupid. I should've known...you'd have a good reason for it all. We do whatever must be done. It took me by surprise is all, I guess. I never would have imagined you a pirate."

"Honestly, it's not all it's cracked up to be," he told her with a half-hearted laugh, attempting to conceal the tenseness of his muscles as her fingers seemed to take unfathomably long with the catch.

"I guess...I guess I'm just jealous."

_Jealous?_ Suddenly, all the comments she had made earlier, asking him about the other coins, being so hurt that he wanted it back, made sense. She was jealous. She fancied him. _Oh. Really?_ Suddenly his remark about whoring seemed overly callous and cruel.

Before he could dwell on this startling new piece of information, she drew the necklace chain and its pendant from between her breasts with a faint, metallic wail that sent shudders to the very cores of his bones, and he found himself staring at it, completely unable to speak.

"Thomas?"

An odd choking noise materialized in his throat, but he could not seem to remember how his vocal chords worked.

"Thomas, what's wrong?"

For one wild moment, he had thought she had mixed up her necklaces, but no...Kitty could not possibly own more than one item of gold and she would not jest with him that way. No, the only conclusion was...

He stared at the solid gold cross that hung between her fingers, feeling as if he might suddenly become violently ill, and when he managed to unstick his throat, he was amazed at how calm his voice was.

"You – you melted it?"

"Well, yes, I-"

"Oh God, Kitty, why did you melt it?" He could feel the panic that was welling up inside him threatening to break in his voice.

"Well, you didn't expect me to go around with some skull medallion slung 'round my neck, did you? They would have called me a witch! Ms. Crawford only 'llowed it because I said it was my dowry, and that was after it was a cross, too!"

"Aw, shit, Kitty! Did you have to melt it?!"

For the first time she sounded worried. "It shouldn't matter, should it? I mean, it's still the same gold, right?"

"I don't know," Dueler moaned, burying his face in his hands, "I just don't know, Kitty!" What if it didn't work? They'd be trapped that way, cursed, forever! And they would blame him, it would all be his fault! Those heathen gods, didn't they have an aversion to the cross, hadn't he heard that somewhere? They'd have to melt it back. But how the hell were they going to do that?

He kicked over a nearby stool, feeling as if he might actually start to cry. "Aw, shit!"

"Shh! You'll wake Helena!"

"Aw, God, what do I do, Kitty? What if it doesn't work?"

Her hands were over her mouth; she looked frightened and ashamed. "I'm so sorry, Thomas! I didn't know! I never thought you'd need it back or- or that it would matter! I just thought I was keeping it safe!"

"What if it doesn't work?" he cried again, getting up in his frustration and actually striding around the room.

"You make it sound like it's some sort of...magic," Katrina ventured.

"An' what if it is?" Dueler shouted at her in his panic, "What if it is, Kitty?"

"I've...I've doomed you all or something, haven't I?" Katrina asked in a very faint voice.

"What makes you say that?"

"Oh...everything. Eight hundred eighty-two gold medallions, spent away, given, all of them having to be found and brought back. A stranger image than that face I never saw in my life. And it, well, it felt creepy, too, like something that was cursed might. It all sounds like some sort of story. You look as if you might faint, sit down." He obeyed this order for the second time and reclaimed his chair. "'What if it doesn't work?'" she quoted, making it a double question.

"We've been cursed, Kitty," Dueler said slowly, running the chain through his fingers, his eyes staring blankly through the table. "An' we cannot lift the curse until we've brought them all back."

"How many? Have you found?"

Dueler shrugged. "Three hundred and three." He picked up the cross with a half despairing, half loving touch and rubbed his thumb across it, making it emit a high-pitched ringing wail that reverberated in the room. "Three hundred and four."

Kitty shivered and folded her arms, and he could practically watch her swallow her question about the conditions of the curse; she didn't want to know. "It...it sounds like some sort of fairytale. Magic and curses and all that."

For a moment there was a touch of madness in Dueler's eyes. "It's not quite so fun when you're in one of those stories, Kitty."

"Will it still work? I'm so sorry, I don't know what I've done."

"Who knows?" Dueler said listlessly, gazing at the far wall, his panic having died away to despair. "Even if it does, who says we'll ever find all eight hundred and eighty-two of them anyway? Maybe we can melt it back," he added, without much hope. Kitty did not seem to know what to say.

"I'm sorry," she repeated, truly looking it. "I never knew. I'm still not sure I do."

"Enough to be getting on with. I'm sorry, I should never have-" He couldn't be mad at her somehow. It wasn't Kitty's fault. If it had been simple gold, as any sane man would have given her, it wouldn't have mattered.

"-given it to me?" Katrina finished, looking down.

Dueler frowned and completed his sentence. "-gotten angry at you?"

"Oh." Katrina looked rather flustered, and Dueler scooted his chair around the table and took her hand.

"Katrina, I've never once regretted giving it to you, curse or no. You didn't do anything wrong." He examined the cross with an expression of hate, and then scooped the cursed thing into a pocket of his jacket.

"But...I melted it."

"But you were right – how would you have looked with that thing around your neck?" He could feel the sudden shift in the clouds, the way his skin crawled as moonlight broke through the covering and was locked away again. If he did not leave now, he would have to wait for daylight or risk his curse. "Kitty, I've got to go." She did not dispute this, but merely sat looking at him.

"Look," he decided wildly, putting all the things he'd learned this night together at last, "if we find them all, an' we lift the curse..."

"Yes?" He could hear the eagerness in her voice, so he lifted her hand in his and kissed it, a small spasm of pain at not being able to feel the warmth of her skin shooting through him.

"I'll come back here an' marry you. Is that a good enough substitute for a creepy pirate medal?"

Katrina laughed and this time it was Dueler doing the shushing. "Oh, Thomas! That would be more than wonderful!"

"Well...well, good," he said slightly awkwardly, thrilled at now having successfully proposed, however impromptu it might have been.

"Now I just have more reason to worry about you. Honestly, I never thought you'd get nerve up and ask!"

Dueler made a silent vow then never to tell her that the reason for this was because he had only just thought of it now. Had she fancied him all this time and he'd never known it? Strange. Still, the more he thought of it, the more it made sense. Sure. She was cute and they got on well, and though he'd never really thought on it before, he guessed she would make a good wife. Yeah. They could be happy together. Huh. He had himself a girl now. And he was only fourteen. Fancy that. He stood up, slightly boggled by all the sudden happenings, and his just-proposed bubble of happiness deflated slightly.

If the cross-coin didn't work, it could never be. If they never found the other medallions, it could never be. He understood some of the desperation that drove the other men, men like Coby, a little better now. Who knew what lives they were missing? Oh, they complained enough about the halt to their whoring and drinking, but what about the men who never said a word? What woman, what life, was Marcus missing? Even the captain...sometimes, when they failed in their search, he would get a look in his eyes, a longing that did not encompass the usual lusts. He had never fully thought about it in this way before. He reached in his jacket pocket, pulled out the cross and clenched it before Kitty's eyes.

"I promise," he vowed in a slightly halting voice, "I'll find every last one o' these. An' I'll make 'em work. I promise you, Kitty."

"You will," she agreed, wrapping her slender hand around his, "and then you'll come back. To me." She stood up too and gazed into his eyes. "I'll wait for you, if only you promise to come back to me." He could see the shine in her eyes, the hopeful light on her face, the way she stepped closer, knew what it meant and sought to prevent it.

"No, Kitty, I'm cursed, I can't-"

But she had put her arms around his neck and was kissing him. He held her in his arms and kissed her back, a splitting ache in his soul. He could not taste her, could not feel the warmth of her mouth, the smoothness of her lips, the heat of her breath on his face. He could hardly feel her at all. No, all he felt was pain; the pain in his soul and the pain that came whenever they felt anything pleasurable, that grew and ached and burned until they all had ceased to pursue anything but the gold, because anything else hurt too much to endure.

Kitty broke away with a gasp, joy shining on her face, and he worked to conceal his pain for her sake. He had missed his first real kiss, had been unable to feel anything but longing for it, and he had no memory of it now to take with him to sea save the way her face had looked, her beautiful eyes, and that faint gasp. At least she had enjoyed it. That was all a cursed man could ask. He stroked her hair, held her close and whispered, "I promise."

And then he stepped reluctantly away and the ever-present emptiness inside him swelled to fill his whole chest with cold. Dueler tried to smile as he stowed the cross back in his pocket, heedless of the pain that punished him savagely for their kiss. He was a betrothed man now, with a wife to return to and promises to keep, but he could not keep his thoughts from turning to the three hundred and fifth coin. It called to him, a pulling shimmer of sound that was more felt in the bones than heard; an insistent beckon across all the leagues upon leagues of open water left in their search. He would not fail.

He slipped warily out the door into the darkness, but there was no revealing glimmer of moonlight anywhere to be seen. He knew that Kitty stood in the door and watched him until he was out of sight, but he did not turn around or look back. His muscles twitched uncomfortably and he shivered, quickening his pace, but before he had gone more than two streets down, the moon drifted innocently away from the tangle of clouds and cast her light down upon him.

He shuddered as the curse broke over him, as he decayed from a human being into a monster, and quickly ducked back into the shadows of a nearby building to wait for the moon to hide her face.

The gold wailed dismally in his pocket and he smiled grimly. Let it wail. There would be blood and much pain and fear and anger before this was over, but he would not let it touch him. He would make this coin work. He would search the seas until he found the rest, by whatever means. He had been kissed. And he would keep his promise: he would come home to marry Katrina.

The moon slipped away beneath the clouds again and he stepped back out into the streets, grim determination in his stride.

Overall, definitely one of his better nights, as cursed nights go.


	7. Chapter 7

**The Tale of Coin # 385**

**Written by: thebrokenbiscuitcompany**

**Beta: Nytd**

--

The mist swirled down the alley, swathing everything with a damp sheen. A black cat pounced on a mouse and stole away into the shadows. The only light came from the full moon hidden behind a grey cloud.

A pawn shop sign creaked in the slight breeze.

A small and rather portly man came around the entrance of the alley and scurried down the cobbles. A small door opened in the wall and the man stepped inside, warily looking around him before he entered. The dingy shop was lit only by the stub of a candle, which threw deep shadows into the corners.

The man stepped forward gingerly. "Hello?"

"Welcome," said a gravely voice from the shadows**.** "Do you have the money?"

The man jumped in surprise.

"Y…yes. Yes I do. Here." He took a pouch from within his coat and placed it on the counter. It jingled heavily. "Where is it?"

"Just let me go and fetch it," said the voice. There was the creak of a door being opened and closed**,** and then the man was alone.

He took the opportunity to look around the little shop. There was all manner of objects piled on every available surface. Books were laden upon spindly tables. Jewellery hung from hooks on the wall - all heavy necklaces and chunky bracelets. Statues and ornaments adorned all surfaces**,** and miscellaneous objects filled every other space. He even saw a bust of King George with a delicately wrought tiara balanced precariously on his head.

It wasn't long before the pawnbroker reappeared with the object of the man's desire. It had cost the pawnbroker a lot of money and some dodgy deals to obtain this**, **and he wasn't about to let it go without a heavy price. He picked up the bag on the table and felt its weight, placing the object on the counter.

The buyer, whose name was Piers Roedean, picked up the object and stroked its glimmering gold surface. The skull engraved on its face shimmered**,** and Piers was mesmerised by its gothic beauty.

It was a coin. Ancient-Aztec gold, forged by Cortez himself – or so he had been told. He didn't know if this was true or not. He had heard of its existence and had hunted down this pawnbroker who claimed he could get ahold of it. And here it was. Finally. After six years of searching. So many stories of cursed gold and cursed pirates. So many flagons of beer in inns all over the county.

The pawnbroker coughed and broke Piers' trance.

"Shall I wrap it up for you, Sir?"

"What? Oh, yes. Please." Piers watched as the man wrapped the coin in paper. He stared at the man's wrinkled face and how the lack of light made his lines look deeper than gorges. Finally the man put the coin into a small box and handed it to Piers.

"Is the payment enough?" he asked.

"It will suffice. There was a slight complication along the way from London, but what you have given will do," replied the pawnbroker.

"Thank you."

The man grunted and opened the door. "If you have anything else you need, you know where to come."

"Yes. Goodbye. Thank you."

The man grunted again and closed the door in Piers' face. Piers looked nervously around him again and headed off down the misty cobbles as fast as his little legs could carry him. The Lanes of Brighton were not the safest of places.

When he had returned to his house on the seafront, his maid, Emma was waiting up for him.

"Did you get it, Sir?" she asked, taking his cloak.

"Yes, now if you'd be so kind as to bring me a hot cup of tea to my study, then leave me in peace."

"Yes, Sir," she said, curtseying.

Piers retreated wearily to his study and did not emerge.

***

"Emma! Emma! Where's my cane?" Piers hurried into the hallway after oversleeping. He had woken up at his desk with papers stuck to his face and glasses askew.

"Here it is, Sir," said the maid, handing him a stick of dark wood with a silver ball on top. He grabbed it and placed it under his arm.

"Now where's that blasted carriage?"

"Waiting outside, Sir," said the girl.

"Good. I can't possibly be late for this meeting with Lord Denver. Be sure to have tea waiting when I get home**,** and for the love of God, don't break anything while I'm gone!"

Piers climbed into the carriage and banged on the roof**,** signalling for the driver to set off. The carriage trundled down the dirty streets of Brighton and out into the surrounding countryside towards Shoreham.

An age of time passed**,** and as the carriage bumped along the potholed lane, Piers stared out at the endless green and wished that he had brought that morning's newspaper with him.

He sighed and pulled out the coin from a deep pocket. Every time he looked at the coin, he felt as if he was being pulled in by some mysterious force. His eyes slipped out of focus as he was pulled in deeper and deeper**,** until he felt as though he was going to fall forever.

Without warning, the carriage jolted him out of his reverie**,** and before Piers had time to put the coin away, the door was wrenched open and a man in a black hood dragged Piers out of the still moving vehicle and threw him to the ground. He cried out as his body hit the ground hard.

Another jumped up, grabbed the driver from his seat and slit his neck with a dagger. The poor man jerked around, blood gushing from his severed jugular. Then he slumped to the ground, dead.

The highwaymen kicked and punched Piers, winding him and cracking a few of his ribs. One picked him up and brought his head down on a jagged rock when he blacked out. They tugged the rings from his stubby fingers and the ruby brooch from his cloak and sprang onto the carriage, whipping the horses into action like there was no tomorrow, leaving the coin embedded in the mud where Piers had dropped it in the struggle.

***

Three months later, a young man wandered down the lane with his uncle wheezing behind him.

"Slow down! I can't walk that fast!" he said.

The young man chuckled, stopped walking**, **and scuffed his feet on the ground. He looked down and saw something glinting in the pale sunlight that filtered down through the trees either side of the track. He stooped to pick the object up and rubbed off the dirt with a slightly less grubby finger to see it better. His eyes widened in shock and a huge grin appeared on his face.

"Look! Look**, **Uncle Pint! I've found one!"

The older man, Pintel, snatched the coin off his nephew and danced around on the spot.

"Huzzah! Oh, the Cap'm is gonna be happy with us! But how'd it get 'ere?"

"I dunno, but I reckon it was Divine Providence what landed us here," replied Ragetti.

"And I say it was the fact that we had no stores left," said Pintel.

"But how'd you know it wasn't Divine Providence what made us run out of stores?"

In answer to this, Pintel cuffed his nephew around the back of the head and carried on down the track.

"Come on. Barbossa said he wanted us back by nightfall."


	8. Chapter 8

**The Story of Coin #473**

Written by: damsel-in-stress

Beta'd by: MorganBonny

--

"Hatty, listen to me," my father pleaded, thrusting the small bundle into my hands. "You must keep it somewhere safe and tell no one about it. Your very life may depend on it!" His voice was so grave, so desperately in earnest, that from my seat in the carriage I found myself nodding. My travel bonnet, one I'd never had to wear before, slipped down over my eyes and I had to quickly push it back up.

"You have to be careful," he stressed, worry staining his face.

I nodded again, this time with one hand on my hat. Fumbling in my haste, I unwrapped the tiny but extremely important package I had been charged with, realising as I did so that I was shaking. The cloth was old and stained, but as I peeled back the layers I was greeted first with a flash of gold and then the unmistakable shape of a coin covered in strange marks, with a leering skull face emblazoned in the centre.

"But this is the coin I-" I began, but Father silenced me with a gesture. "You said you would throw it away," I continued regardless.

"Please, this is not the time," Father begged.

He looked frightened and kept casting uncomfortable looks up the drive as if he expected sudden and unwelcome company. When he looked back at me through the carriage window though, his eyes clouded with guilt.

I was still half-enthralled and half-repulsed by the coin as I gazed at its macabre beauty. My father's words echoed in my head but they lacked meaning. He seemed unwilling or incapable of explaining what was happening, although the dreadful hints and frightful stories I'd overheard were enough. Still, the threat of death he described was almost impossible for me to comprehend.

"Tell no one," he repeated. "Do you swear it?"

"Of course!" I replied indignantly, my almost child-like sense of honour wounded by his need to make me promise.

He gave a heavy sigh of relief and smiled softly at the expression on my face. "I knew I could count on you, Hatty."

I laughed, the tension of the last few weeks a heavy strain on my apparent mirth. "Do I have to go?" I asked, my voice small.

He wouldn't look at me. "I'm doing the right thing," he said, his frightened eyes darting up the drive. But he sounded so unsure.

Before I could act on my confusion and growing fear, he kissed me quickly on the cheek and ordered the carriage to go. I sped off down the drive, my father and my home getting smaller and smaller behind me.

I hung precariously far out of the window to watch him, waving with all my might. He didn't wave back. Tears stung my eyes as Father became too small to see, and I looked down wildly at the coin in my lap. It shone up at me out of the gloom, seeming almost like it was actually staring at me, amused by my distress.

Disgusted, I pushed the coin deep into the folds of my coat and resolved to forget about it. The coin was so insignificant compared to the mammoth event of leaving my home.

Little could I have guessed the magnitude of what I had just done in taking that coin from my father.

///

My name is Harriet Mary Fisher, the only daughter of Reverend Michael Fisher, who preached to a meagre congregation of people in the small English seaside town of Hastings. I was born and raised there by my father, as my mother had died in childbirth. I didn't miss her too much, remembering nothing of her, and my childhood was as good as any. There was always food on the table and plenty of treats and gifts from my slightly doting father.

It wasn't perfect; when the other youngsters ran wild across the cliffs and looked for creatures in the rock pools, I was often inside, reading books with father or helping him write sermons, but I could hardly complain and my little existence was almost idyllic until the day it was so drastically interrupted.

It was the summer before my fifteenth birthday. Father and I were wandering along the beach, the warm sun at our backs and the soft spray of the sea floating on the breeze towards us. We had laughed our way along the pebbles, stumbling a little as we meandered our way towards the waters edge.

I remember that on sudden impulse, I'd broken away from my father and plunged into the water up to my knees, feeling it rush into my shoes and saturate my stockings.

"Hatty!" My father had laughed, too amused to be truly angry.

I giggled lightly, waltzing in the waves, my dress pulled up around my knees and an unconventional amount of leg showing between my dress and the sparkling sea. But I was young, and still so free.

I splashed seawater at father and he laughed in surprise, stumbling backwards. I cackled merrily and was pleased to see the familiar slow smile spread across his features.

"Come on in!" I called, shouting to have my voice heard above the sound of the sea and the screech of the gulls.

"Not in your lifetime," he replied, amused.

I laughed and danced away from him, kicking the water and sending it in rainbow arcs across the clear sky. I made my way down to the rock pools, climbing out of the water and flopping down on the slimy, seaweed covered rocks.

As I waited for father to catch up, I ran my fingers through the water in the little pools, pausing when my finger snagged on something in the cool water. I peered into the murky depths, my eyes catching a slight hint of gold.

"What's that, Hatty?" Father asked as he came up behind me.

Frowning, I turned to him, slowly opening my clenched palm to reveal a small gold coin that glinted with a terrifying intensity in the bright morning sun.

"Where did you get that?" Father asked, his eyes wide.

I indicated the rock pool. "What is it?" I asked, my adult interest and child's curiosity both piqued.

Father hesitated and a dark look flashed across his face. Finally he answered, "I have no idea. Give it to me and I'll return it to the sea; you don't want to go around with a coin like that."

"Why ever not?" I asked, closing my fist on my finding.

"Harriet, give it to me," he snapped.

I jumped; he never shouted at me. Hesitantly, I held out my hand to him and he snatched the coin from me.

"Go back to the house, I'm sure you have some work to do," Father ordered.

I lingered, confused and angry at his unfair and unexplained actions.

"Go home!" he barked.

I turned and ran back up the beach, my wet clothes slapping against the round pebbles as I stumbled in my haste. I didn't look back.

///

The catalyst for the changes that heralded that sudden and violent jump from my happy childhood into the harsh expanses of the real world was the seemingly unimportant finding of that mysterious coin. After that day, my life started to fall like a series of dominoes towards an inevitable end, an ending that it seems I was the last to become aware of.

When he finally got home that fateful day, there was something different about Father. Instead of sitting in the front room where I was and working on next Sunday's sermon, he retired early with no explanation as to why. Disgruntled, I'd sat by myself, picked up a book and tried to read, but found my heart only half in it. I kept stealing glances at the armchair father usually sat in, as if expecting him to appear there. The room seemed oddly quiet without him.

Eventually I gave up and went to bed as well, casting a confused glare at father's closed door as I padded towards my own.

The next morning turned out to be similar. Father skipped breakfast and went into town alone, returning later with a pile of old books and documents that he immediately took up to his room, locking the door behind him.

It was then that the secrets started.

There was nothing definite, nothing I could quite put my finger on, but after fifteen years of living with Father, I knew when he was hiding something from me.

He spent increasing numbers of hours alone in his room or on the prowl down in town, and I was sure he was looking for something. It was several weeks after the finding of the coin that he discovered what he was searching for, not that I knew that at the time.

I almost found it all out one morning completely by accident. I came down that day to find father hunched at the kitchen table, pouring over some papers. He looked exhausted, and I wondered if he had slept at all.

"It can't be true," he mumbled, rubbing weary eyes and scrutinising a faded piece of writing.

"What can't?" I asked.

Father jumped in surprise and a flash of fear crossed his face, to be replaced with guilt as soon as he saw me. He thrust something small and round into his pocket, and with quick jerky movements grabbed at the papers on the table, knocking some off in his haste to collect them all.

I knelt to pick them up, ignoring my father's mysterious pleadings for me not to. As I turned over one of the papers and handed it to him, I couldn't keep my eyes from momentarily brushing the faded picture on the old page, and recognition dawned immediately. It was a drawing of the same coin I had picked out of the rock pool.

Before my brain could process this information, Father snatched the page from me, hiding it behind the pile, his eyes wide.

"Isn't that–" I started to ask.

"It's nothing," he cut me off.

"But I thought–"

"Harriet!" he snapped. "There are some things best left unsaid! I don't want you involved; this is too–" He struggled to find words. "You'll understand when you're older and not before."

Angry and hurt, I fled the kitchen, wondering what could possibly be so 'adult' that he couldn't tell his own daughter.

///

It was around that time that I think Father realised how strange his behaviour had become. Even his congregation had started to notice changes, and rumours were rife. So, in retaliation he began cultivating a façade of normality and publicly returned to the old routine.

It was enough to keep the people of Hastings happy, but I knew better. Secretly he had strengthened the locks on all the doors in the house, even installing some on the bedrooms, and had taken to staring out of the top sea-facing window, as if expecting a ship to appear. Although he'd stopped his mysterious and obsessive researching, he had begun reading his Bible with new zeal, again as if searching for answers.

He did try and tell me once, in his own way, in words he perhaps thought I'd understand, but I wish he'd told me that was what he was doing at the time.

It was evening and Father and I were sitting in the front room, him in his armchair and I curled up in another, just like we had sat in the old days. But it wasn't like the old days; Father's mind was preoccupied, fixed on whatever it had been for almost a month. The unspoken secrets had choked the life out of any conversation we might once have had.

The silence was heavy and I felt oddly claustrophobic sitting there pretending to read while Father's eyes burned a hole in a blank sheet of paper. After a while, I watched sidelong as Father climbed to his feet and began slowly pacing, casting occasional anxious glances at my silent, watching form.

I returned to my book, finding it even harder to concentrate now as Father's rhythmic steps sounded across the floor, and after a moment I found my heart marching in time. I wished he would sit down, but more than anything, I just wished he'd tell me what he was thinking.

Then I realised the sound had halted and I looked back up to see that Father had stopped in front of me, an unreadable expression on his face.

"Shall I tell you a story?" he asked, to my obvious surprise.

He often used to tell me stories, Bible passages, fables or ones he had heard that he just thought I might enjoy. I had inherited his voracious appetite for tales, and as I grew older we sometimes traded them, taking it in turns to share our hoarded yarns. It came as a surprise though, his sudden desire to tell me a story, and all I could do was nod dumbly.

Father eased himself down into his armchair, ready to begin his tale. I felt an odd sense of anticipation tingling along my skin as he did so.

"This story is about a pirate," he said, his voice unusually quiet. "This pirate was so infamous that when people heard his name they fled, leaving their valuables behind in their flight to save their own lives. So many blood-curdling stories abound about him, that even I am loath to try and cleave fact from fabrication, but of one thing we can be sure. A couple of years ago, I am unsure how long exactly, this pirate heard a story about a great treasure, buried on an island that can't be found except by those who already know where it is. Being a pirate, he went in search of it, and being the pirate he was, he found it and took it all, spending the vast fortune on food and drink and fornication."

Father was scowling, his lip twisted in a way I'd never seen before. Something about this tale obviously didn't sit well with Father, but it was only a story and he'd never gotten so upset over one before. I didn't have time to wonder at his odd behaviour, as, seeing my interest, he hastily continued with the story.

"What the pirate hadn't considered, or rather what he had ignored, was the terrible curse that had been placed on the treasure," Father breathed. "Long ago, when Cortez invaded Mexico, the Aztec people begged him in gold to stop the slaughter he unleashed upon them with his armies. But, like the pirate, Cortez was driven by greed, and he found that the Heathen Gods had placed upon the treasure a curse, so that any person who removed a single coin from the place he hid it would be cursed for eternity." Father's voice was grave. "The pirate and his crew were cursed, unable to enjoy their incredible riches, unable to taste the food or drink they bought with it. The effects of the curse were plain to see; whenever they stepped into the moonlight, the flesh would vanish from their bones and they became walking skeletons. Unable to die but unable to live. The curse had destroyed them."

Father lapsed into sudden silence. I thought the story finished, but then his sombre voice picked up again.

"There is one way they can be freed from their curse; they would have to return every cursed coin to the island they found it on and repay the blood they spilt in getting it. They must not be freed though," father declared, his voice rising. "They are cursed and they deserve to stay cursed!"

Father stopped abruptly. His eyes were wild in the firelight from reading, research and lack of sleep. I wondered why he had told me such a story and was almost afraid of the passion with which he'd told it. The story was, on the surface, similar to what Father usually told me. It had an obvious moral: the pirate had been cursed by his greed, but the fear and loathing in his eyes when he told it were all too real.

I desperately wished, not for the first time and definitely not for the last, that Father would just explain exactly what the matter was. But he didn't, and I never realised the significance of that 'story' until it was too late.

///

Hastings is a small town, perched on the South Coast of England and half hidden between a couple of bleak hills. Its population when I knew it was remarkably few, and nearly everyone used to attend church on Sunday. I remember that particular fatal Sunday with painful clarity.

It wasn't raining yet, but the sky was grim, and dark, foreboding clouds could be seen on the horizon plodding towards land. The congregation had stumbled into church as fast as their Sunday best would let them and slumped in the pews with sighs of relief. Thunder sounded in the distance as the first hymn started up, and everyone eyed the windows warily, knowing a storm was coming.

Father welcomed them jovially, complementing them on getting there before the weather turned. He began the service with his normal, friendly, down-to-earth piety, but I couldn't help noticing how he kept casting nervous glances out of the window to the left of the pulpit, and the anxiety in his eyes was in stark contrast to his seemingly happy mood. At first I thought perhaps he was just worried about the storm, but as time went on, I realised his growing fear wasn't proportional to the approaching squall.

I watched Father closely, worried about his unquestionable but unexplainable anxiety. As time went on he kept staring out of the window more and more frequently. I watched as the colour drained completely from his already pale face and his eyes widened at something he'd seen outside.

Before I could think of a reaction, father had dropped his hymn-book and Bible and stumbled out of the church under the astonished gaze of the congregation.

My first instinct was to run after him, but then a thought struck me. Instead, I hurried to the pulpit and peered out the window, my heart pounding as I looked around for what had terrified my father so much.

Through the mist and the gloom, I could just make out the shape of a ship on the water, a ship with black sails.

///

I ran home through the fog. My feet smashed into puddles as I stumbled blindly through the terrible weather. The door was open when I reached home, and worry clawed at my throat as I entered the dimly lit room. My father was nowhere to be seen. I stood still, listening, and soon heard the sound of someone upstairs.

Moving as quietly as I could, I crept up the old stairs. My heartbeat was so loud I was sure it threatened to betray me. The door to Father's room was half open, and summoning the remnants of my courage, I pushed it open.

Paper was strewn everywhere and pieces of furniture were lying on their sides, sliced open as if someone had been looking for something inside. Father's books had been pushed off the shelves and trampled underfoot and his old chest lay in a bed of it's own splinters in the middle of the room.

But it wasn't the broken room that frightened me so much.

When I opened the door, the creature bolted, but I'd already got a glimpse of the two wide yellow eyes, and a mouth full of tiny terrifying teeth, framed by matted brown fur, and knew that the thing that had systematically destroyed my father's room was a monkey.

After it scrambled away, I was left in shocked silence, frozen to the spot. I barely heard the sound of someone running up the stairs and coming to a halt behind me.

"God preserve us–" Father gasped and I jumped as I realised he was there.

"What's happening?" I asked, my voice coming out in a croak.

Father looked just as shocked as me, and then came to a sudden decision. "Get your stuff," he ordered. "You're leaving."

My mouth dropped open as I followed Father into my room. He tossed my cloak at me and I watched aghast as he grabbed my bag and started shoveling my possessions into it.

"Where?" I asked, unable to form coherent sentences.

"Your aunts'," he replied shortly.

"But why?" I asked, even more urgently, but he just ignored me.

"Father, tell me!" I cried, but he remained silent and distant.

All I could do was cling helplessly to his hand as he pulled me down the stairs and out the front door. We started stumbling up the lane, fighting the rising wind. In a whirlwind of confusion as the first drops of rain began to fall, I was bundled into a waiting carriage, my frugal luggage thrown in behind me.

I looked desperately around the gloomy carriage and out across the field towards home, the mist already obscuring my view.

"Hatty, listen to me," Father pleaded.

I let out a small hysterical laugh; I was more than willing to listen, all I was waiting for was for Father to start talking.

He shoved a small, dirty bundle into my hands with a guilty glance over his shoulder. "You must keep it somewhere safe and tell no one about it. Your very life may depend on it!

"You have to be careful," he stressed, eyes boring into mine.

I nodded dumbly, unwrapping the precious bundle I'd been given and revealing the now familiar coin.

"But this is the coin I-" I whispered, but Father silenced me with a gesture.

"You said you would throw it away," I continued, feeling strangely betrayed at his simple lie.

"Please, this is not the time," Father replied, his eyes pleading. "Tell no one," he repeated. "Do you swear it?"

"Of course!" I replied, watching my Father breath a heavy sigh of relief.

"I knew I could count on you, Hatty," he said, smiling tightly.

I returned the smile, but it didn't quite reach my eyes. "Do I have to go?" I asked, my voice sounding very small in the carriage.

My Father wouldn't look at me. "I'm doing the right thing," was all he said.

Then Father sent the carriage away. So that was how I found myself, bemused and scared, with an enigmatic coin in my possession, rattling along a road away from the only home I'd ever known.

All I could do was cling to my little bag like it was the only thing anchoring me on this Earth. I was fearful that if I let go I might never find my way back home.

///

The wind tore through the flimsy carriage, rocking the unstable frame and clawing at my clothes and hair. Rain had started to beat down rhythmically on the top of the unsuspecting vehicle, and it lumbered drunkenly from side to side as it ran through puddle after puddle.

I was hunched over my belongings, as my exhaustion and upset had sapped my energy. Tears were dried on my face, leaving hard salty crusts around my eyes, and I had my knees drawn up to my chest with my arms wrapped protectively around them.

I peeked out of the carriage window, realising we'd already driven up the cliff road and were putting fields between the sea and us. I couldn't see the edge of the cliffs behind us any more as great hedgerows loomed, blocking the way, with thick mist curling around the branches making the edges bleary and ghost like.

I shivered, retreating back into myself, the biting cold and roaring wind destroying the last tentative remains of my courage and hope.

I laid my head on the seat beside me, curling into a tight ball and screwing my eyes shut. Still the lashing rain intruded on my sleep and I lay in hateful silence, unable to cry any more but wishing I could as I begged the world to leave me alone. I must have drifted into a light slumber then, despite the drumbeats of the rain and the wail of the wind, as the next thing I remember was the carriage coming to a sudden halt and awaking to the sound of a cut off cry.

I uncurled sharply, my still half-asleep head spinning as I sat bolt upright in the gloom. I strained my ears, but silence greeted me; I wondered if I had imagined the sound, but that still left the mystery of why the carriage had stopped.

Then my suspicions were confirmed when I heard soft gruff voices float in on the wind and the unmistakable sound of a pistol being cocked. My heart did a belly flop inside me and I couldn't help a gasp escaping my dry lips. In the half-light, I peered at the door and terror leapt into my heart as I could just make out the handle being slowly turned.

All I could do was crouch in paralysed fear as the door creaked open and a figure was silhouetted against the boiling grey clouds. He was short and stocky with crazy yellow eyes and a wide, lecherous grin. He was dressed in tattered garments with his grey straggly hair hanging, dripping wet, from his otherwise bald head.

With one hand he held the door and in the other he held a pistol, waving it in my vague direction.

"Ello, Poppet," he drawled.

Fear raced through my veins, filling them with sudden energy, and I flung myself out of the carriage, popping past the man and landing with a splat onto the stodgy ground outside. There was a cry and a thump, followed by swearing and the sound of a gunshot, but it was so gloomy all I could make out were shapes and impressions. That was enough. I'd already seen all I needed to deduce that there were more men and they all wore the same dirty, tattered clothes and desperate, malicious smiles. I didn't stop to think what they were doing there. I'd lived by the sea long enough to have a fairly comprehensive knowledge of pirates, and these men fitted the descriptions I had heard all too well. I'd come across too many stories, and I didn't think this was a good time to stop and find out if they were true.

I ran.

Another gun went off and I couldn't help a surprised scream. The sharp light momentarily dispersed the dark and I saw clearly about half a dozen men behind me, slowly but unstoppably winding their way towards me. Terrified, I stumbled along the soggy ground, the rumble of thunder in the distance drowning out the sound of my pursuers.

My foot caught in a small hole and I cried out, the ground hitting me in the face. Mud had splattered up my dress as I landed and when I tried to push myself up, my hands slipped in the cold, cloggy wetness and I slumped back down. Panicking, I rolled onto my side and lumbered to my feet. Too afraid to look behind me, I resumed my flight, mud falling in clumps as I stumbled along some more.

When I ran out of the safety of the trees and onto the bleak expanse of fields the wind hit me, snatching away my already short breath. When I'd staggered along by the hedgerows I'd been shielded, but as I neared the cliffs I was met with the full force of the weather. Rain was falling in sheets, obscuring my vision; the darkness and mist were everywhere, broken only by the occasional shaft of moonlight slashing its way through the sheets of cloud.

I tried to catch my breath but realised I didn't have time. Fighting against the powerful gales, I soldiered on, panting, my feet catching in invisible holes. I was numb from the biting cold and my stiff legs refused to move fast enough. I imagined I could hear the pirates behind me, even over the cacophony of the storm, and panic clogged up my dry throat as I hobbled on.

My attention was completely used up in struggling across the muddy grass, avoiding the thistles and weeds that pulled on my clothes and the gaps and verges threatening to bring me down. I didn't notice the clouds slowly open and a sneaky shot of moonlight push its way through the curtain of darkness towards us. As the treacherous light fell on myself and my attackers I couldn't help glancing over my shoulder and couldn't believe the sight I was greeted with.

All I could do was watch, repulsed, as a bizarre change came over the pirates. Flesh dripped away from their bodies, leaving just the bare bones beneath and their clothes disintegrated leaving them clothed in rags.

I could only stare as empty eye sockets swerved in my direction and gaping, leering skull faces smiled at me. Ice-cold fear clawed at my already terrified heart and I stumbled backwards, almost falling over my own feet. I turned away, unable to stand the grotesque sight any longer.

As I pushed on, the clink of weaponry and the raucous shouts of the pirates followed but a strange calm had come over me.

Everything had finally clicked into place.

As I watched the pirates turn into skeletons at the slightest touch of moonlight, I remembered Father's story and realisation struck me like a knife in my heart. It was true. The coin I had been charged with took on a whole new significance in my mind as I thought about it. Now I realised why Father had been so terrified and knew with a sick feeling in the pit of stomach that here I was with one of the coveted coins in my pocket, and the fabled pirates on my trail in search of it. I was baffled how my situation had got so quickly and quietly serious and furious at myself for not realising sooner. I now saw how all the signs had been there and I'd just been too blind to acknowledge them, or perhaps the real problem was simply that I'd never realised the line between reality and fantasy could become so fragile.

Part of me was filled with sudden anger at my father, a man who I'd always thought to be on my side but who hadn't told me what was going on, expecting me to live in blissful ignorance, probably for my own good. In actual fact, his actions had just incited me to find out the hard way, and now I was paying the price for his omission.

Perhaps father had honestly thought that the coin would be safe with me, and that I would be safe with it, and that in escaping to my aunt's household the pirates would never find me. I realised now how he had felt it his duty, that given this chance and the knowledge, he should keep the coin away from the pirates in punishment for their numerous trespasses. This is what had been worrying him so much and why, when he realised the pirates were coming, he'd sent me away, no doubt hoping that it would be enough to set things straight.

Father had always simply wanted to do the right thing.

Here I was though, drowning in the sea of my father's good intentions and risking my life for a cause he, and not I, believed in.

Deep down a vicious part of me wondered if it was worth it.

While I'd been thinking, I'd been running, my mind switched off from reality as it slowly worked out how I'd been plunged into this situation, but as my train of thought came to a stop, the desperateness off my present predicament hit me. Like the thought had been a physical blow I stopped, winded and tried to get my bearings.

I had run back through the fields and mechanically up across the cliffs of my hometown. I could barely see the pirates behind me in the dark but I knew somehow that they were still coming. They had no need to hurry; after all, there was nothing I could do to escape.

Hopelessly, I ran a bit further, up this time and onto the cliff top, feeling the wind blow in off the sea and snatch my breath away. The rain had become less insistent now, and I wiped the water away from my eyes as I peered into the gathering black behind me, searching for the pirates I knew must be following me.

Before me, the sea stretched out infinitely and crashed into the misty horizon somewhere beyond my comprehension. There really was nowhere else I could run to.

I clenched my fist around the coin, drawing it out of my pocket and showing it's leering smile to the open sky. Funny how I'd left everything else in the carriage and forgot that I had this hidden in my coat. I hadn't thought it important.

Behind me the sound of people increased, announcing the imminent arrival of the pirates and as I turned, I caught a glimpse in the moonlight of the light glinting off a naked sword.

My fear slowly morphed into righteous anger; this wasn't my world and this certainly wasn't my fight. Uncaring chance and the actions of others had bought me here and those people had had no right at all to decide my destiny for me. My father had betrayed me.

Ignoring the pirates creeping closer behind me, I turned my face to the open ocean, taking in my hometown, snuggled in the valley to my right, and the sea itself, slamming against the cliff below. Slowly, I wiped the rain away from my face, smoothing my soaked hair back from my brow. Numbed by the chill of the wind and the soft touch of the sea on the air, I was strangely calm as I stood there watching the sea rage and churn at the base of the cliff, like ingredients in a witch's cauldron.

A sharp laugh and the sound of heavy breathing behind me warned me of the pirate's arrival but they didn't attack. I wondered why not - I was helpless – but they seemed loath to advance, as if still savouring their moment of triumph. I could almost smell their conquering lust as they shifted from foot to foot in the wet grass, impatiently waiting for the signal to attack.

Time seemed to slow as I stood on the cliff top with my doom loitering behind me. I breathed in the sea air, letting the rain wash away my worries and replace them with a passion I'd not encountered before. Looking from the cliff top and dizzying drop beyond it to the pirates, the real players in this tale, then back at myself, in my sopping clothes and with a look of stunned fear on my pale face, I came to a sudden decision.

It was pointless, I know, as the pirates would just wait for the storm to pass and the sea to spit out the coin again, but a rebellious part of me wanted to take part in this final act of defiance. At least it was finally a decision I was making for myself and no longer was I just a pawn in other people's plans.

I tightened my hold on the prized gold disk in my palm, then spun on my heels, threw back my arm and flung the precious object with all my might into the open air. The smiles drained off of the pirates' faces as they stopped, stunned, and the coin hurtled towards the waiting sea. I smiled then; my destiny was finally in my own hands.

It only took a moment for the pirates to recover from the initial shock and predictably, their fear soon turned to fury. With roars of anguish that echoed across the cliff tops, they turned on me, running across the stodgy ground, their weapons smashing patterns in the misty air. Shouts split the gloomy night into pieces and gunfire sent sudden sparks across the unbreakable sea of grey. The wild eyes of the pirates were pinpoints of fire in the wet sky and their mouths were wide in shrieks, as if they were open doorways into Hell.

I shut my eyes tightly, but the image of the pirates was seared on my eyelids. I opened my mouth slightly, the bubble of a scream beginning on my lips, but the pirates hit me before I could properly cry out.

And all sounds stopped together.

///

With the end of my story and me, I am fairly confident that it didn't stop the pirates too much in their quest. The world kept on turning, regardless. I was mourned by many, but soon forgotten by most, and as my pointless sacrifice wasn't known by anyone but my father, I wondered who would even think to remember me. I was just another victim, one of many insignificant setbacks on the pirate's brutal road to freedom. I would be forgotten, but like uncountable others, I could be sure that, although my name was lost, my blood would still indelibly stain the otherwise glittering face of the coveted Aztec gold. The thought was somehow morbidly pleasing.


	9. Chapter 9

**The Tale of Coin # 571**

By Jennifer Lynn Weston

--

"Remind me again, Rag: why it is we're sitting here like a pair of limp-wristed lubbers 'stead of breaking in?"

Ragetti, leaning on a 'borrowed' walking stick at the bench's other end, was fidgeting. He didn't enjoy the feel of formal clothing any more than his uncle did. Ironic, considering that tailored garments were supposed to be more comfortable... though of course, these hadn't been tailored for them.

"Because there's a slew of magistrates patrolling up an' down this street. If we make any attempt at burglary, they'll be on us like gulls claiming a beached codfish. Bein' immortal don't give us any power to walk through jailhouse walls."

"So, we have to wait for the old git to come open 'is shop, after which we go in, all polite, and pay fer it like we was law-abiding toffs?"

The younger pirate shrugged in resignation. "Only safe way to extricate it from a civilized locale."

Pintel glared along the quiet tree-lined avenue, fiercely hoping not many of those thrice-cursed coins had wound up in such respectable circumstances. His scowl intersected with an elderly strolling couple- seeing their  
disconcertment, Ragetti called, "Don't mind him! He's got a touch of the gout today."

Pintel redirected his glare to the still-closed shop. The gilt-lettered sign over the door identified it as 'Dickens' Fine Curiosities- Treasures, Oddities and Precious Objects From Every Part Of The Globe'. The display window was crowded with objects; box-mounted seashells and mineral specimens, small creatures preserved in alcohol jars, gaudily painted Asian ceramics, jewelry pieces of variant quality. There weren't any Aztec coins on view, of course; all the truly valuable items would be locked up inside. But there was no mistaking its Call.

The wig shop next door displayed its poofy wares at more widely-spaced intervals. Pintel ran a hand between his absurd plumed hat and scarce-haired scalp, thankful his nephew had managed to dissuade the captain from making him wear one of those repellent things...

"Thing is, Cap'in, even wigs aren't going to convince anyone me and Pint are highborn gentlemen. We just can't talk like 'em. It'll be more feasible if we pass ourselves off as manservants, shopping on the behalf of some noble  
fop."

After some huffing, Barbossa had conceded. "Aye, mister Ragetti; that do seem more believable."

Pintel gave his nephew a fond glance. That lad could be aggravating, but there was no denying he had his useful moments.

"You are sure you know how a pouncy manservant would behave."

"Just being well-mannered ought to suffice, Pint. 'Doesn't hurt to know how to act civilized, when the situation requires." Ragetti's face twitched regretfully. "After all, it were uncivil impulses what landed us in this predicament to begin with."

That made no sense to Pintel- a shortage of information about Aztec curses seemed to be responsible. "How's that?"

"Recollect how Barbossa cited one particular ship's Article, to persuade certain of the crew to mutiny?"

"Aye- that passage forbidding congress with unwilling wenches. Of course that excited resentment! Taking what you want is the whole point of being a pirate!"

"Captain Jack always insisted such goings-on besmirched a ship, in every sense of the word- he'd not tolerate anybody degrading his _Pearl_ that way." Ragetti ran a finger under the too-snug collar. "There might've been another reason, too. I once overheard him saying something pertaining to that headscarf he always favored..." *

"It's asking' a lot of a bloke. Sparrow never seemed to notice we don't all have wenches swooning over our good looks, like he used to." Pintel much preferred to contend that foolish young captain had brought the  
rebellion on himself, with his wildly unreasonable demands. Such a scenario made certain recollections far easier to live with.

"Consider the consequences, though. We got rid of Sparrow- in part, to eliminate said restriction. As an indirect result, we're now cursed to derive no pleasure at all from any wench, willing or non."

"Like I need to be reminded." A pretty young woman in a lavender dress and parasol was flouncing down the walkway. Pintel ogled her under hooded lids, eyes burning with lust and frustration.

"'So it could be said, it were a case of poetic justice."

That didn't make sense either. "How can it be 'poetic' when it don't rhyme?"

"'Poetic' meaning 'characterized by romantic expression or imagination'."

Pintel rolled his eyes- not for the first time. "Whatever git sired you must've been so stuffed with book-learning it leaked out with his seed! 'Cause you sure didn't get that from Molly."

"Mum always did prefer to do business with the more gentile 'uns. At least, when she had the looks to appeal to 'em... before she got the cough." Ragetti appeared deeply mournful.

"No more talk about that- you're starting to get modeling," Pintel interjected. He swept another fierce glare up and down the walkway. "That rotter's sure taking 'is bleeding time!"

Several minutes later a skinny popinjay finally appeared, unlocked the shop door and went in. Ragetti and Pintel exchanged gleeful grins. The former fished a beribboned monocle from his coat pocket, squinting to affix it over his right eye.

"What's that thing for?"

"Won't do to advertise our seeming inability to afford a glass eye." Getting to his feet, Ragetti cleared his throat and rehearsed his spiel, duplicating the speech patterns of his Mum's preferred customers:

"Pardon us, good sir. We are two gentlemen's gentlemen, seeking out unusual coinage to purchase on behalf of our esteemed employer. Would you happen to have any such, in this fine establishment?"

Pintel's usual glower was mitigated with admiration. "I'd best stay in the background an' let you handle the transaction."

The two straightened their unaccustomed clothing and entered the shop. Minutes later, they re-emerged with far less silver but significantly more gold. Pintel promptly turned their course towards the harbor.

Ragetti let the monocle drop into one hand, as he flipped the skull-marked disk in the other. "That weren't so bad, were it, Pint?"

The older pirate was glowering again. "I'd liked to've shoved a dull blade through that sod's gullet, when he inquired whether I were aware that clothes brush I were tryin' out was fer use on dogs."

"You made a good explanation, though. Claimin' it was a fair test, since the Master's dog is one of them hairless breeds." Rag scowled himself as he added, "I did think that blighter's reply was uncalled for. 'It should  
be equally suitable for use on you, then.'"

"Entirely uncalled for!"

"Would you fancy us coming back here tonight, to smash his windows?"

"Naw, I just want ta get shed of polite society as soon ez possible." The older pirate quickening his pace as the street got ever shabbier. "Let's hope the next coin's mired in the most squalid port in the West Indies!"

Finally they reached the odorous sanctity of the dock area. Ragetti gratefully ripped his collar wide open. "I just hope we can fetch it without another change of wardrobe."

---

FINIS

---

* "There might've been another reason, too. I once overheard him saying  
something pertaining to that headscarf he always favored..."

The full explanation is included in Chapter 14 of my fic Jack To The Future.


	10. Chapter 10

**Hell is Empty and All the Devils are Here**

**The Story of Coin Number 666**

Author: Nytd

Beta: FreedomOftheSeas

--

"Ain't no way 'e's got the guts to do it," Samuel, the ringleader of the group of delinquent town rugrats, stated imperiously, folding his arms across his chest as the rest of the small group of dirty, roughshod boys shifted their attention between their leader and the boy about whom he was speaking. Two years older than the average member of his gang, dark-haired Samuel stood several inches taller than the rest, and he threw a challenging look at Peter –auburn-haired, freckled, wiry, and a veteran pickpocket at the age of twelve.

Peter smiled to himself; this was a little game they often played when they were bored and pickings had been slim. It was customary for the group of ragtag boys to issue dares to one another from time to time when they had nothing better to do, which was often, and as the level of their boredom rose, so did the audacity of the challenges issued. Today Samuel, having been in a mood all afternoon, had decided that he'd had just about enough quiet to suit his tastes, and whirled on the first member of their gang who happened to be close by after pulling the group into the shelter of a shadowed corner between buildings.

"There now, would yeh look at that," he said, indicating the carriage a short ways down the street. A half-dozen faces peered around the corner surreptitiously to get an eyeful of the two well-dressed men, probably wealthy merchants, and the woman they were helping step into the hansom. "I reckon they got a pretty penny among them," Samuel pronounced, glancing once over his shoulder at the threesome. "Which one of you lot 'as the stones to earn 'is crusts today?"

"I'll do it," Peter volunteered quickly, knowing that they had seconds to pull off what Samuel had in mind.

"What, _you_?" Samuel sneered. "Yeh think yeh have the pluck an' the luck to pull that one off, Petey?"

"I reckon I do," Peter said, already on the move across the street. "Just don't the rest of you bung it up!"

In reply, the rest of Peter's mates, now excited at the prospect of earning money for bread, each pulled a sling-shot and a small stone from their pocket arsenals, and prepared to take aim at the two smartly matched pairs pulling the carriage. This trick was old hat to them, and their timing was perfect when the driver called to the horses and they started forward, just getting up speed to a jog. They let fly at the lead horses, causing them to whinny as they balked and reared against the onslaught of stinging pebbles. Seeing something had upset the horses, the driver instantly reined them in, only to find a boy sprawled on the ground before them.

Peter had done this sort of thing before, and usually with great success, although not without risk. Timing was crucial, as was a bit of luck, and if a stoic horse elected not to be concerned with being pelted with a round of sharp little rocks, the one diving beneath their front feet could be in some serious danger. But this time had gone as smooth as silk so far, and although his clothes were already in want of repair and cleaning, Peter had managed to smear a bit more mud on them and across his forehead, making it seem even more likely to an onlooker that he'd just been run down by the horses and carriage.

By the time the driver had jumped down off his perch to see what had happened, Peter, who had his eyes closed, could hear commotion back toward the carriage, and had all he could do not to smile; despite the protests of her two male companions, the lady had opened the door and climbed out of the carriage once the driver had called back that a child had been injured in the road.

By the time she had made it to where the driver was kneeling by Peter's side, trying to discern if he were alive and the possible extent of any injuries, Peter had groaned loudly when the driver had touch his left arm, where he had smeared a particularly large amount of mud. While the pair's attention was focused there, he relieved the coachman of his purse, expertly tucking it away in the right-hand pocket of his breeches.

At this point it was customary for the con man to revive a bit, thank the people who had stopped, graciously accept the coin or two they would usually hand him as a way of apology for nearly running him down, and to scurry off before the unsuspecting driver could have a chance to notice his missing purse. Even as he sat up blearily, Peter could see that the woman was already rummaging through her purse, evidently to fish out what she thought a suitable sum to make amends for her driver's supposed carelessness.

While he knew he should be content with what she would give him, Peter was sorely tempted to grab the purse and run, with the amount of jingling that could be heard from within, but the sight of the necklace the woman wore tempted him even more. A gold locket encrusted with numerous tiny gemstones arranged in the shape of flowers hung at her throat, and it would have been no effort at all to snag it, break the delicate chain, and make off with it in an instant. He was about to consider doing just that, when he suddenly found her thrusting four very large coins in his hand.

"This is for your trouble," she said kindly, standing as her driver helped Peter to his feet. "I'm glad that you weren't seriously hurt. Please watch where you are going; you might not be so lucky the next time."

"Thank yeh, mum," Peter said in reply, as he pocketed the coins. "I will...erm...be more careful."

She favored him with a benevolent smile, and picking up her skirts, climbed back aboard the carriage as the driver gave Peter an exasperated look and returned to his perch. The moment the driver was situated and had the reins firmly in hand again, Peter broke into a sprint and disappeared around the corner to meet up with his mates.

"_Pheeewwwww_." Samuel let out a low whistle at the sight of the purse and three coins Peter handed over to him. "Not bad fer a day's work, mate," he said, evidently pleased. "This'll do well by us fer a bit yet."

Samuel did his best to divvy up the spoils among the small group, and although Peter felt his share should have been one coin more for taking all the risk this time, he said nothing, as he'd managed to keep the existence of the fourth coin the woman had given him a secret.

It was early evening when the group finally split up, those who had homes making their way to them. Samuel and Peter, each from homes they weren't in a hurry to return to, kept company with each other for an hour longer, skipping stones at the water's edge by the docks, until it got too difficult to follow the path of the rocks. The temperature had dropped a bit uncharacteristically, bringing in a fog that blanketed the surface of the calm water, and with only limited moonlight peeking through the clouds and fog now and again, the two of them relinquished their game.

They walked along in silence for a moment, each lost in his own thoughts as their feet crunched the rocky beach they crossed.

"I reckon me ol' man's gone out to the tavern by now," Samuel said simply, not needing to say anymore for Peter to understand him. Samuel's father, a heavy drinker and an ill-tempered drunk, was best avoided as much as possible, and Samuel had avoidance of him down to a science. He'd usually make it a point to slip into the house after the man had left for town, and after handing over the majority of what he'd earned for the day to his careworn mother, would leave a few coins of offering on the table for his sire – enough to keep the inebriated man pacified when he returned home from his binge, as it was enough money typically for the next night's drinking.

Peter nodded, thinking that it was time he considered heading home as well. Home was not a place he cared to be for long, any more than Samuel did, but it was for different reasons entirely. Peter's father had been away long –gone to sea two years now, and likely not coming back to his impoverished wife and son. And while young Peter did his best to scrape together whatever he could, by whatever means came his way on a given day, in addition to what his mother earned as a seamstress it was just enough to keep food on the table and clothes on their backs.

His mother was a very kind woman, devoted to her son and her faith, and the reason that Peter avoided being at home for long periods had nothing to do with fear of an unkind word or a beating. It had much more to do with the fact that it broke his heart to see how unhappy she was, although she did her best to hide it in front of him; running an affectionate hand through his untidy hair here, patting his cheek there, trying to scrounge up enough extra money for a treat for him now and again, which she'd hand over with a smile. Yes, she smiled, but genuine happy smiles came few and far between, and it had been months now since he'd been witness to one of those from her.

Peter's thoughts went back to the locket he'd seen on the woman from the carriage earlier that day, and for the tenth time he regretted not grabbing it at the last minute. He knew for a fact that he was fast enough to have palmed the coins she'd handed him in one fist while he snagged the necklace with the other, and to be halfway home before either the woman or the coachman had realized exactly what had happened. True, the necklace was worth more than a shiny penny, but it had been something he'd thought to present his mother as a gift, in his ongoing search to find something that made her happy.

Why he hadn't taken it, he couldn't rightly say, but sticking his hand in the pocket opposite from the one that held his share of the payout today, he knew he was better off with the coin he'd kept, unbeknownst to Samuel, who still walked next to him. A foreign coin it was, unlike any he had ever seen, and gold for certain; despite the macabre markings, with the size of it he was certain it would see the two of them fed for easily a month. That might give her cause to smile for him, and the thought buoyed him enough that he figured it was time to go home and present it to her.

Distant muffled sounds and subtle splashes caught his attention, and Peter peered past Samuel and into the fog. "It's a bit daring to bring a ship like that one into the harbor this far in the dark and all this fog, don't you think?" he asked Samuel.

Samuel glanced at where Peter had been looking, and after squinting a moment to try to make out the ship his companion had been speaking of, shrugged and turned back. "I don't see no ship."

"It's right...right there," Peter said, pointing to where a thinner patch of fog had allowed him to see the faintest outline of a ship's masts.

Samuel still beheld nothing, and elbowed his smaller companion roughly out of annoyance. "Right daft you are, Petey. I don't see no bloody ship. Yeh must've actually conked yer head with one o' them 'orses today."

"No, it's right..." Peter broke off, seeing nothing through the thicker bank of fog that had obscured the spot where he'd thought he'd seen the misty silhouette of a ship. "Huh. Swore I saw one."

"Yeah, well I'd best be off, mate," Samuel said with a wave, heading for home. "Ta."

"'Night, Samuel," Peter called, heading toward the docks. To get home he'd cut along the water's edge past all the wharves and the few warehouses, and then head inland toward his mother's house. While he'd been that route a hundred times before, tonight he had to take care to pick his way gingerly along the wharves through the fog, slowing his pace to match his limited visibility. The last thing he wanted was for one misstep to put him in the water.

Finally nearing the point where he would head inland, Peter reflexively threw a glance at the little fishing hut he knew he was about to pass, despite the fact that he couldn't actually see much of it. A large, square, dark shadow was present in the depths of the fog, and a slight luminescence marked where a candle lit the space beyond the window.

Here was old Badger's hovel –the gnarled and scarred old fisherman who inhabited the hut and haunted the docks. Peter and his friends had never bothered to learn the old man's real name; Badger was what they called him for his fierce expression and white stripe –a scar that ran back through his hair from above his milky left eye, blazing a trail through his graying hair that spoke of the severity of an old injury he'd sustained at sea. By the look of the head wound he'd received, he should have been dead. Some said he actually had been for a time, and although Peter liked to think that such a thing was nonsense, the myths surrounding the old timer, coupled with his disturbing appearance, were enough to make all the boys steer well clear of the hut.

Likewise, Peter knew that Badger couldn't see out of the damaged eye, but Isaac Brown, the cooper, had spun a tale of how that cloudy, shrunken orb could actually see into a man's soul, and it had given the boys even more cause to avoid the old fisherman's gaze. Peter shuddered involuntarily at the thought of possibly encountering old Badger wandering through the dark and the fog, and he quickened his pace, wanting to put some distance between himself and the waterfront.

A small splash and thud off to Peter's left startled him enough to cause him to jump, and as he peered through the fog he could just make out what appeared to be a rowboat bumping up against the dock. Someone was tying off a mooring line, and fretting that it might actually be old Badger, Peter increased the length of his strides, hurrying past the skiff as someone climbed out of it.

Perhaps it was just his imagination, but Peter felt as though whoever had climbed out of the boat was staring after him, and the thought of that blank, white eye peering at his soul through the unnatural fog made his blood run cold. He tried to tell himself that Isaac Brown had just been trying to scare them with that tale, but it would have been easier to convince himself that was the case had it been high noon and the docks were bustling with sailors and merchants. As it was, in the gloom of the murky night, it was a lot more difficult for Peter to chase the notion of that eye from his mind, and a lot harder to convince himself that the footsteps he heard upon the wood were not heading in his direction.

With his imagination afire and his heart pounding in his chest, Peter made the decision to run, once he'd heard several more sets of feet hit the dock, and he broke into a jog, hoping not to run into anything in front of him, and that those footsteps weren't actually heading his way. He was moving blind, unable to see more than a couple of feet ahead of him, and paying more attention to the sounds behind him than to where he was going, he nearly screamed when a dark shape loomed up immediately in front of him. Strong hands grabbed his arms even as a startled cry escaped from him, and the weathered and scarred visage of Badger emerged from the fog, that horrible blank eye inches from his own.

"Whoa! Y'd best be watchin' where yer a-goin'," the old man grumbled, his voice as rough as his appearance. "Y' nearly ran me down there, sonny."

Peter was too startled to move for a moment, and then it occurred to him that it was his own fear that was keeping him there, as Badger had let go, having merely grabbed him to keep the two of them from colliding head on. It seemed as though he should say something, and mustering his courage enough to speak over his heart that was surely in his throat, he apologized, thinking it a wise thing to do.

"Sorry," Peter gasped, breathless from running and the fright. "I didn't know...didn't see..."

"Aye, well it's not a good night fer runnin' when y' can't see yer own hand in front of yer face," the old man said, holding up his palm meaningfully, "but it's a night fer bein' indoors. Y'mark my words." He glanced around at the gloom uneasily. "Y'd best get yerself home, Peter Hill."

If Peter had been startled by running into Badger, he was even more surprised when the old man spoke his name.

"You know my name?" he asked the scarred fisherman, forgetting his apprehension momentarily.

"Aye," Badger answered with what Peter would have sworn was a smirk. "I know all y' filthy wharf rats by name. Yeh keep me amused with yer antics down here at the docks."

"Antics?" Peter asked, thrown off by the idea that the old sailor had paid much attention to anything a gang of boys might be doing.

"Aye, antics," Badger replied in an amused growl. "How much did that fancy lady's driver lose to yer cause today?"

Peter had no immediate answer in his surprise that the old man knew what they'd been up to, and Badger laughed a rough little laugh.

"S'all right," the fisherman continued. "It's not like I'd turn y' in. Calypso herself knows that some o' those folk can spare a coin or two, an' pro'bly ought to be sparin' more'n that.

"Well, y'd best be gettin' home, young Master Hill," the old man said, starting to make his way toward his fog-shrouded hut. "I'll bid yeh g'night."

"Goodnight, Mister..."Peter began awkwardly, not knowing exactly what to say.

"Badger," the old man replied, to Peter's great surprise once more. "Aye, you boys aren't the only ones as call me that...but it's just as well…there's worse things a man can be called, and well...Badger suits me."

It was difficult to say in the gloom, but Peter was pretty sure the old codger had been smiling when he walked away. Still unsettled by how odd his encounter with the fisherman had been, he stood there for a long moment trying to decide just how he felt about having spoken with Badger, as he caught his breath.

A sharp, brief cry behind him that suddenly choked brought Peter out of his musings about the old man, and he turned to peer into the dark, squinting to try and see him in the fog.

"Erm...Badger?" Peter called tentatively, unhappy at how small his own voice sounded. When the fisherman didn't answer, he became concerned about the fact that he and Badger probably weren't the only ones by the docks, since someone had obviously been coming ashore in the boat he'd seen.

Seconds ticked by along with the pounding of Peter's heart as he waited for an answer that never came, and he felt immobilized with dread. Trying to convince himself that the old seaman had just coughed or cleared his throat, Peter took a few steps forward, his feet feeling sluggish and heavy as he tried to move them.

"B...Badger?" he called again, in little more than a whisper, moving through the thick mists as they eddied around him, white on white. Low voices met his ears, and Peter would have turned away, but the swirling fog chose that moment to give way briefly, and in the murk Peter could see a prone figure on the boards of the dock, surrounded by half a dozen others.

"'_E don't have it,"_ someone was saying.

Two of them were crouched down over the unmoving person with a torch, and in the light that flickered weakly against the fog, Peter could make out the shock of white that ran across Badger's head, as well as a large dark stain that appeared to be spreading across the boards from underneath it.

The involuntary gasp he let out even as he staggered backward grabbed the attention of the group standing over Badger, and they all stood, visible in the torchlight as a group of rough, ragged, and fierce-looking men who were obviously criminals. Criminals on the docks who had come ashore in that boat could only mean one thing, Peter knew, and that was that they must be...

"_Pirates_," Peter gasped, even as someone in the group yelled, 'Get 'im!'

Peter bolted, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to turn around. The savage cries the six pirates bellowed behind him caused his blood to surge in his veins, and he sprinted head-long through the misty darkness, uncaring what might be unseen in front of him, for what was behind him was much more of a threat.

More fierce shouts came from much too close behind, and Peter realized as he ran that the pirates could probably hear his footsteps and his heavy breathing. While he knew the fog was hindering their visibility as much as his, he decided that he might be better off hiding than trying to outrun six grown men, and he veered off towards roughly where he thought the nearest warehouse was.

A sudden jolt of pain shot down the right side of Peter's face and shoulder, and he found himself knocked backwards onto the ground, shaking his head and trying to figure out what had happened. He hadn't heard any gunshots, and as his head stopped spinning, he recognized that there was a very dark shadow ahead of him in the fog. He realized even as he touched his fingers to his head and they came away sticky, that he'd run headlong into the side of the warehouse.

"_Find 'im!"_

"'_E went this way!"_

Voices that were much closer than Peter cared for carried though the thick mists, and he heaved himself to his feet, trying to keep his labored breathing under control. He put his hands out in front of him to touch the building, and traced the wall to where it turned a corner. A single glance backward showed dark shapes criss-crossing in the murk, and Peter ducked around the corner just as several pirates stepped out of the fog and stood where he'd fallen a moment ago.

Peter dared not move and plastered his back to the building, still holding his breath as best he could. It was difficult to hear just what they were doing, as his own pulse marching in his ears tried to drown them out.

"'E's close," one of them snarled as they regrouped just around the corner.

Peter had the distinct and unpleasant impression of a pack of hounds scenting the air for their quarry, and he didn't need to peek to know the sounds of steel on steel meant swords being drawn. His heart was beating so hard he was afraid that the pirates might actually hear it.

"We know yeh're 'ere, boy," one of them called. "We know yeh're _close_."

Peter tensed even further at the words, cold sweat running down his back as he pressed it harder against the splintery wood of the building.

"We know you have what we want," another of them growled. "It calls to us. It calls to us and we will find it...we'll find _you_.

None of them said anything else, and the apprehensive silence stretched on for what seemed an eternity as Peter waited around the dark corner, just feet from where the pirates stood trying to catch any hint of sound from him. One of them took a step closer, he could tell, and he wished he could just close his eyes and fade into the wood at his back.

"Give us the coin, boy," the closest one said in an ominous whisper, "and we'll let yeh go on yer way."

Peter remained frozen in place, but suddenly realized that the pirate must be speaking of the foreign gold coin given to him by the woman from the carriage today. Why they would go to such trouble to pursue him for one odd gold coin, he didn't know, but he didn't care either. If the coin was that valuable, than perhaps it would feed him and his mother for even longer than the month he'd already figured.

Knowing that if the pirates came only a few feet closer he would be discovered, Peter decided his best chance was to flee while they still seemed undecided upon a course of action. Steeling himself and taking a deep, silent breath, Peter launched himself off the wall and ran for all he was worth.

"Get him!" the harsh voices cried out behind him.

Peter stayed close to the side of the warehouse, trying to judge when the building would end and he could cut inland toward town. As he ran he could hear the pounding footsteps and cursing of the pirates very close behind, and he tried desperately to run faster.

Suddenly, two figures with a light loomed up in a break in the fog dead ahead, and Peter started to pull up, until he realized that the light of the lantern one of them carried was reflecting off the red coats they wore. Marines! Peter dashed onward, yelling to them for help as he did so.

"'Ere now, wot's all this?" one of them asked as Peter sprang towards them, relieved for one of the few times in his life to run across some of His Majesty's navy.

"Pirates!" Peter gasped, pointing behind him. "There are pirates after me!"

"Pirates?" one of them asked doubtfully, looking annoyed until he saw the first two men step out of the fog, pistols and blades in hand. They were a mismatched pair, one tall and lanky and the other shorter and stocky.

"Drop your weapons!" the second marine ordered, training his rifle on the pair as his partner hastily put down the lantern and did likewise. The relief Peter felt began to fade as two more pirates stepped out of the fog, outnumbering the two marines that stood between him and his pursuers. The two men were large: an enormous African with a fierce expression, and a rugged, scraggly-looking fellow brandishing a wicked-looking grappling hook.

"I said drop them!" the first marine ordered again, but the first two pirates merely shared an amused look and continued forward.

Two gunshots rang through the night as the marines unloaded their weapons on the two advancing pirates. The aim of each was true, and the two brigands stopped in their tracks, the tall one glancing at a wound in his chest, and the shorter one rolling his eyes up as if he could see the hole in the middle of his forehead. They shared another glance, and then the shorter of the two spoke.

"Our turn," he snarled at the two marines, and all four pirates rushed forward.

Neither Peter nor the two redcoats could fathom why the men who had been shot were still moving, but it was only the boy who had the opportunity to dash away, as the two marines were quickly engaged by the four pirates. The struggle that ensued was brief, and Peter knew the two cries he heard behind him were those of the unfortunate soldiers.

He was too busy trying to put distance between himself and the brief battle to pay attention to the fact that he'd not seen the last two pirates, and cried out with alarm as they suddenly loomed up in front of him, a tall Jamaican and scurvy-looking chap with a tight-fitted cap. Peter instinctively ducked low, diving between them as they snatched at him, as he'd done so many times after his usual targets, having discovered their pockets picked or purses purloined, would try to catch the slippery little thief. He sprinted toward where the end of the alley was bathed in moonlight, hoping that he might make it to the maze of streets where the residential areas started.

Footsteps pounding behind him once again spurred him on, and Peter knew that he wasn't going to be able to run forever. Knowing that the one advantage he had was familiarity with the area, he reached the cross street and dove right, breaking for freedom.

Peter's heart instantly sank when he saw the dead end and he realized his mistake; in the fog by the docks he'd lost his way, and had ended up one street further east than he'd thought. Instead of the street that led straight into the heart of town and safety, he was staring at the shadowed back of a warehouse instead. He glanced around desperately, his lungs on fire from running so hard, and nearly in tears. The few large wooden doors around him were well secured, he knew from past exploration, but he ran to each one, tugging at them frantically despite the fact he knew they'd be locked. With nowhere else to run as he drew near the end of the alley, he turned to face his pursuers, hoping against hope that they might not see him in the shadowed end of the alley.

The alley appeared empty, but Peter knew he wouldn't miss them when they turned the corner, with the moon lighting the junction, and he waited, sinking back into a darkened corner as far as his small stature would let him.

The fact that he was crouched down so tightly with his clenched hands pressed against his mouth already was the only reason he didn't scream when the six pirates, now reunited, stepped into the moonlit end of the alley. Peter gasped sharply, his mouth falling open in horror at what he was seeing. Through his terror he somehow intuitively knew why the two pirates hadn't instantly dropped dead when they'd been shot, for in front of him was something so unnatural and terrifying, it was worse than any nightmare he could ever remember having in his short twelve years.

Six skeletal forms, clearly still the pirates he'd been chased by from the remnants of the same ragged clothing and the weapons they carried, began moving slowly his way, peering in windows of the warehouses and trying each of the same doors Peter had so desperately a moment before.

Peter knew that they were coming to realize that there was only one place he could be, and the six turned his way, advancing with menacing grins.

"Nowhere to hide, ol' chap," the shortest of the group said, his gruff voice even more terrifying when issued from the skull that sat upon his bony neck now.

"Yeh've hit a bit of a dead end," his taller companion said, and the way all six chuckled wickedly at the comment made Peter's blood run cold. As if to reinforce the walking nightmare's words, the cloud cover was shifting, slowly sweeping moonlight into his corner even as it let shadow and flesh once again cover the pirates. They spread out across the alley, as the moonlight revealed him, perhaps ten feet away, ensuring there'd be no escape this time.

"Hand it over!" the broad African growled, brandishing a wicked-looking blade.

Peter stalled out of desperation, not sure where the courage came from to even speak. "Hand w...what over?" he asked meekly.

The six pirates shared a look, and the large one with the grapple answered him. "The coin yeh have in yer pocket," he snarled.

Peter fished in his pocket and pulled out a small coin that had been part of his share of the takings from earlier. "This?" he asked in a tiny voice. "Take it." He tossed the coin at the feet of the one who had just spoken.

"Think yer funny, eh?" the feral-looking pirate with the hat asked, taking a step forward. "If he ain't handin' it over, I say we cut 'is puny lit'le throat!"

"I say we gut 'im," his tall Jamaican companion added menacingly, "and watch 'im squirm."

"Aye!" the four roared in agreement, and Peter got the impression it wouldn't matter to them if he handed the coin over or not –his fate was likely to be the same, and one he was defeatedly coming to resign himself to.

He was surprised therefore, when the youngest of the pirates stepped between the others and him, staying their hand a moment. "'E's just a kid," he said. "'S not right –killin' a boy like that."

"No reason why we can't jus' take the coin and leave 'im be," the stocky one agreed, but Peter's heart barely had time to flutter in hope.

"You two 'ave gone soft!" the ferret-like capped pirate spat. "You know the cap'n's orders –'e said kill anyone 'oo got in our way."

"Yeah, but 'e wouldn't really be in our way if'n 'e were to give the coin over, roight?" the lanky pirate asked.

"That's true," his stocky counterpart agreed.

"Shut up, both of you," cap-head snarled, brandishing his weapon at them as Peter's seesawing hope crashed again.

"Found yerselves a wharf rat, have ye, lads?" spoke a voice from the shadows behind them all, and the attention of the entire group, Peter included, turned to the speaker. A tall, dark figured moved their way in a slightly uneven fashion, and as he emerged from the darker shadows, Peter knew from the way he was dressed and the way he carried himself, that this must be their captain.

That notion was reinforced as the pirates stepped aside deferentially and let him pass, coming to stand before Peter. The two looked each other over – Peter gazing up at the intimidating figure before him in the shadow, the captain staring appraisingly down at the boy in the corner exposed by the moonlight.

A long moment passed, but then at last the pirate spoke. "I'll give ye but one chance to hand over the coin and walk away from this," he said, his coarse voice soft, but full of subtle menace. He waited a few heartbeats while Peter hesitated, knowing he had no choice, but loathing the thought of giving these monsters what they wanted and being unable to ease his mother's burden for a time. Evidently he hesitated a beat too long, and the captain turned away.

"Bring me the coin, and quickly," he snarled quietly at the others, and he began to walk away.

"Wait!" Peter yelled, ignored by the captain. "Wait!"

Strong, careless, bony hands crushed his arms as the African stepped into the light and grabbed him, and Peter panicked as the others closed in, likewise transforming again.

"Captain, wait!" he cried, blurting out more in his desperation and terror. "The coin...you can have it. I just wanted..."

A cold blade pressed against his throat.

"Oh God, please!" Peter gasped. "I only meant to...please...it was for my poor mother..." Peter realized at that moment that he was never going to see her again.

"_Stop_."

The single word stopped the skeletal pirates in place as if they'd been suddenly frozen, and they waited with Peter in their grasp, as he panted uncontrollably with a knife against his throat. The captain seemed to be considering his last words, standing with his back to them, and then he turned and slowly came back to stand before the group again. A single impatient gesture of one hand dismissed the others, and they let go and backed away once more, all but the African at Peter's back.

A long moment passed in silence as the pirate stared Peter down, and the boy could feel the captain's gaze traveling over him, from his untidy auburn hair to his ragged clothes, despite the fact that he could barely see the man's eyes in the shadows. Once again, the captain spoke.

"What be yer name, lad?" he asked.

"P-Peter Hill, sir," the boy answered, wondering if the man just wanted to know the names of those he killed.

"Peter," the captain repeated, "a fine name fer certain. So, tell me, young Master Hill, might ye be inclined to strike a bargain?"

"A bargain?" Peter asked, barely daring to hope this might mean there was a chance he would come away with his life.

"Aye." The captain nodded his head once in affirmation, the feather on his great plumed hat bobbing slightly as he did so.

Peter nodded emphatically, grasping at whatever slim chance he had before him.

"Then the terms be this," the pirate said evenly. "Ye'll hand over the coin, _the gold coin_ _in yer left pocket_, and in return I'll give yeh somethin' that ye'd find of equal value to the coin." He reached into the inner pocket of his coat, and took out something that Peter couldn't quite see.

"Oh, 'is life ain't enough in return?" the ferret-like pirate snarled.

"His life be worth far less at the moment, Master Twigg," the captain answered in what sounded like an amused way. "'Twould not be honorable to offer him so little, in return fer what cannot have a price put upon it by the likes of us."

The captain's words were not lost upon the boy, and Peter instantly agreed.

"Then ye'll hand over the coin," the captain said, extending one expectant palm into the moonlight surrounding Peter, who could only glance briefly at the alabaster fingers that waited for the gold, and then returned to the stare that the pirate had fastened upon him from the shadows.

He reached into his left pocket and shakily placed the gold upon the slender bones. The pirate claimed the coin, but his gaze never left Peter's as he withdrew his hand and then offered the other, unfolding skeletal fingers to reveal something else gold. Peter slowly reached for the object and then stopped in his tracks as he realized what he was looking at. There in the dead hand was a locket, and one he had seen that very morning.

"Take it," the pirate said quietly, although there was no question he spoke a command. "This has been paid fer dearly, and ye'd be wise not to waste it."

It would take a long time for the chill that ran up Peter's spine at the captain's words to wear off. He knew what had likely happened to the unfortunate owner of the locket – the very same person who had so _very_ recently been the owner of the horrible coin...

He took the locket in a daze, only half expecting to be let go, but the captain dismissed the other six pirates with a single look. After meeting Peter's gaze again for a moment, he nodded once silently, and then turned and went, fading back through the shadows and the fog.

Peter waited until the last pirate had been gone for at least ten minutes before he dared believe they had truly left for good, and then he finally slid down the wall of the warehouse, sinking into the dust, in shock and exhausted.

--

Peter didn't give the locket to his mother, nor did he let it go to waste, as the pirate captain had suggested. The coins he got in trade for the necklace made all the difference in the world, allowing him and his mother to move to the more affluent town of Port Royal. There his mother was able to secure jobs sewing for several well-off families that paid much more for her work than those in the town where they had previously lived.

Peter never picked another pocket again, but instead took an apprenticeship with Mr. Robert Smith, learning the craft of a pewtersmith, and earning enough as he learned a trade that it helped ensure comfort for his and his mother's future. He made friends easily, and occasionally snuck off to go swimming with Will, the blacksmith's apprentice, as both the pewterer's shop and the smithy got unbearably hot some afternoons.

As for what he had been through that one terrible night, he was able to eventually put it out of his mind, banishing the gruesome memories for four long years, until the night he had closed up shop for Mr. Smith, and noted as he walked through town that the evening seemed unseasonably cool.

By the time he'd made it home, a thick fog had started rolling in, chilling him blood and bone, and with one glance in the direction of the unnaturally mist-laden harbor, he shut and barred the door, pitying as he did so whichever poor soul in Port Royal might possess one of those golden coins...

--

**A/N:** The title is a quote from _The Tempest_, by Shakespeare.

In _Curse of the Black Pearl_, when Will is battling the undead pirates as Elizabeth is being kidnapped, there is a sign on one of the shops that says: R. Smith, Pewterer.

:)


	11. Chapter 11

Note: See glossary of Spanish terms at end of chapter.

**The Tale of Coin #673**

**Written by: Tarlea**

**Beta: Nytd**

**--**

The widow Treadwell hunched over her teacup, her eyes sparkling with the fire of fresh gossip.

"I had a letter from my Matthew today," she announced with her usual air of importance.

This was an occasion to be sure, as Matthew Treadwell was an ordinary seaman on His Majesty's Ship _Shoreham_, and, save when instructed by his commanding officer, rarely wrote.

Widow Dunlap leaned in eagerly, sensing an intrigue. "Oh?" she prompted her friend.

Widow Treadwell puffed her heavily fichued shoulders clear to the wall. Then she pronounced her news.

"Jacob Throughton has gone pirate."

Both ladies raised supercilious eyebrows and pursed self-righteous lips.

"Well, I suppose you can't expect no better from Luke Throughton's boy," Widow Dunlap opined.

Widow Treadwell nodded in agreement. "It's a mercy Mary's not here to see it come to this, God rest her soul. First Logan, now Jacob." She shook her head in a show of solicitude that was not entirely convincing.

"Yes, poor Mary," sighed her companion, though her voice lacked any true pity.

All of Ginney Head knew about the Throughton family. The citizens of the town had shaken their heads sadly when 'Old Jake' Gordon had practically sold his rosy daughter Mary to the vicious, powerful and constantly drunk Luke Throughton. They had pretended not to notice as her rosiness faded into a pale, drawn grey broken only by deep purple bruises and angry red burns. They had remarked it a miracle when she made it through Jacob's birth, and huddled in the frost bitten churchyard three years later when she did not survive Logan's.

In the absence of his mother, Logan Throughton served as the focus of Luke's drunken abuse. Jacob was nine when he began to realize that it had been his father, and not Logan who had killed his mother. He was thirteen when he began to fight back to protect his brother from the drunken beatings. He was fifteen when he and Logan left home and took a job at an estate in the next town. But despite all of his love and protection, Jacob could not save his brother.

Jacob was seventeen when he realized that every blow that Logan had received both in and out of the womb had left bruises that could never be healed. As he reached adulthood, Logan's natural strangeness began to give way to erratic tantrums, fevered rants, and more and more frequently, deadly drinking. Some nights Jacob would return home to find Logan had wandered off, only to discover him in the middle of a field several miles off, shaking with fright with no notion of where he was or how he had gotten there. Jacob bore his brother's mental breakdown with their mother's quiet compassion. His employer did not.

Like all farmhands who found themselves scorned by the ancient English estates that gave them sustenance, Jacob and Logan made their way to London. It was there, while working a temporary job as a boat hand along the Thames, that Jacob overheard two voices he would later know as Joshamee Gibbs and Bill Turner talking of a venture on the legendary _Black Pearl_.

Jacob worked hard, and watched his brother grow worse everyday. He knew he needed to find someone to care for his younger brother, someone who could bear his condition with patience and kindness. London provided numerous asylums for such cases, but to release Logan to bedlam was to condemn him to a slow and squalid death. He needed care that would take far more money than a boat hand could earn.

So that night Jacob sat awake, while Logan rocked and groaned and mumbled in his sleep, arguing with his conscience. Finally he decided there was only one way he could make enough money. And so Jacob the farmhand became a pirate, one of the notorious crew on board the fastest ship in the Caribbean. There was one condition: he requested of Captain Sparrow the means by which to set Logan up in a respectable sanctuary, such a sum to be deducted from his share of the booty of their first take. Much to Jacob's surprise, the captain not only provided the money, but also the address of an establishment he felt confident would serve.

Jacob followed his new captain's directions, and soon came to a wealthier and cleaner corner of London than any he had experienced, coming to stop at a moderately sized cathedral. Upon entering, he was surprised to find that it was not an English cathedral, but a Spanish one. Fortunately the padre spoke fluent English, as did the _abadesa_ of the adjoining convento. So with very little difficulty, Jacob was able to explain that he was about to go on a voyage and that his brother required special care while he was away. Abadesa Patia smiled broadly and assured him that his brother would be "_en las manos de los angelos_"--in the hands of the angels.

Jacob found he liked his new profession. For the first time in his life his fate was his own, no longer tied to brother or master. He was seeing and experiencing so much more than that poor country lad could ever have dreamed. He began to read and write, sending money and letters back to Logan describing his adventures, letters he hoped the benevolent mother would read to him. The one aspect of his new life that troubled him was the unjust killing that seemed central to piracy. He had seen his father bully and brutalize in order to get what he wanted, bestowing the same treatment to poor innocent souls who just happened to get in his way. Long ago he'd vowed he would never kill without just cause. He deftly avoided the practice by using his handsome form and gentle persuasion to achieve his ends. This his captain used to advantage, seeing at once that Mr. Throughton was a fair shot, and could scrap with the best of them, but was a hopeless swordsman no matter how he trained.

It was during the young pirate's first voyage that the _Pearl_ changed masters, Jacob joining the mutiny against Captain Sparrow. He liked the captain, and didn't wish to see him marooned, but he somehow felt that the clever first mate, Mr. Barbossa, was the better candidate for the captaincy, and besides, he didn't want to start any trouble with his more ferocious shipmates. A few months later he returned to London, going at once to the convento. The mother abbess met him with her usual benign smile, but behind all her courtesies Jacob sensed anxiety.

"Mother Patia, what is the matter?" Jacob asked over his cup of tea, cradled clumsily in his big hands.

The abadesa was shocked by his forwardness, but only for a moment. She recovered her usual equanimity, but a worried frown furrowed her brow.

"Your brother has been sick, Señor Throughton." She held up a calming hand at Jacob's immediate expression of concern. "He is better now, _de gracias a dios_, and the doctor says he will be himself again soon."

Jacob removed three large coins from his bag. They were medallions, gold, and printed with a terrifying scull wreathed in Aztec designs.

"That must have been expensive. Here." He pressed the coins into her plump, wrinkled hand. Again the abadesa was shocked, but she accepted the extra payment.

"Gracias, Señor."

"Well, Mother, I must confess that those coins weren't got by entirely Christian means, and I'm hoping that by giving them to you the Almighty will be lenient when the time comes," he joked.

"Ah, but Señor Throughton," she laughed, "_Santo Padre _knows the desires in your heart, and he will reward you accordingly. Do not forget what He has written, "_Porque donde estuviere vuestro tesoro, allí estará vuestro corazón_."

Jacob shook his head uncomprehending. She grinned broadly at his puzzlement.

"For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also," she translated.

"That reminds me, can I go see Logan now?" asked Jacob, rising from his chair.

Mother Patia's face fell again. "Si. But Señor Throughton, I have not told you everything. I can no longer look after Señor Logan."

Jacob sat down.

"Why not, Mother?"

"We are leaving, _hijo_. Going to _Nuevo Mundo_."

Jacob nodded.

"For years we have suffered the hatred of our English neighbors," she explained, "now Dios has called us to a better place, a promised land." She smiled apologetically. "Our brothers in Spain have finally heard our call. The King sends us money to build a new church."

"Can't you take him with you?" Jacob pleaded.

The old woman eyed him for a moment. Then she nodded reluctantly.

"Sí, I suppose we could. But it would take money, Señor," she eyed his bag warily, "more money than you can pay."

Jacob stripped off the sack, which jingled as he held it out to the abbess.

"Take it," he insisted, "I don't know how much it's worth, but it's all I have."

She turned wide eyes to him and opened the bag, spreading them even wider at what she found inside. There were more of the Aztec coins, and a whole host of other coins in silver and gold and copper; necklaces set with glistening rubies and regal emeralds, and a small heathen statue of pure gold set with sapphire eyes. Her gaze turned back to Jacob.

"_Señor_," she breathed, dumbfounded.

"Is it enough?"

In answer the abadesa merely nodded.

----------------

Shortly after this final transaction and a teary goodbye from Logan, Jacob and the crew of the _Pearl_ began to realize the true price of the treasure they had stolen. Jacob described it to Logan in his letters:

_I sleep and wake, I breathe and eat, but I don't seem to feel any of it. It's as if all that has made life bearable is now gone. I sometimes have to convince myself that my dreams, in which I feel and taste and live, are not the reality, and I realize that this hellish reflection of life when I am awake is a nightmare from which I can never escape._

And so the _Black Pearl _set out on the voyage that would define her, the quest to recover the cursed pieces of Aztec gold and to repay the blood so brutally taken by Cortez's mercenaries. Jacob went with them, waiting his turn until the day when Captain Barossa called him to his cabin, and put to him the vital query:

"Well, Throughton, and where be your share of the plunder?"

And so now Jacob found himself following a Spanish road, sweltering under the South American sun, and praying that he would not end the day buried in a Spanish cemetery. He went alone, not wanting the crew to discover Logan's condition. The road began to incline, and soon he was climbing a low hill, at the top of which sat a stone building with all the distinctive spires and crosses of the Catholic church. It was too small to be a cathedral, and too big to be a chapel, but somehow he knew it must be the new Convento del Virgen. He slowed into a long stride, heading for the church's heavy wooden doors.

Thinking to himself that the churchyard seemed awfully quiet, Jacob pulled one door open. Before he could react, there was a long, wicked blade pressed against his throat.

At the other end of the blade was a tall man with olive skin heavily tanned by the South American sun, and a gaze so sharp and full of contempt that Jacob felt sure he would be dead in seconds. Beneath the man's murderous gaze Jacob blinked nervously at his reflection in the long sword.

"_Quien eres?_" the man demanded, in a voice that matched his gaze.

Jacob didn't answer.

"_Quien eres?_" he demanded again, pushing his blade so that a small trickle of blood ran down Jacob's throat.

"Jacob Throughton," Jacob blurted, hoping he'd gotten the question right.

His captor's face changed from a scowl to a smirk, though it was no less intimidating.

"English. And what is your business here, Mister Throughton?" he sneered in heavily accented English.

"I've come to see Mother Patia," Jacob offered, still dangerously close to the Spaniard's blade.

The man grunted. "She is unable to see you."

"Well then, can I see my brother?"

The severe eyes narrowed, and the sword dropped an inch.

"Please, Señor," Jacob tried again.

The man gave a small derisive laugh. "Comandante," he corrected.

Just then, a call from within distracted the 'comandante' long enough for Jacob to twist free of the sword pointed at his chest. Ducking the bullet that buzzed past his head, he scrambled toward the safety of the nearby forest. Apparently he was not considered worth following, for he heard no shots or footsteps behind him, and he sat down beneath the trees to catch his breath. His mind was racing. What did he mean 'comandante?' This was a church. Where was the padre? Where was Mother Patia? Where was Logan? He had to investigate. He followed the tree line to where it curved around the back of the building.

He emerged next to what he hoped was the cloister, and edged towards the nearest window, his pistols loaded and ready. He peered over the edge of the window, aiming his pistol down over it, startling a poor young novice half out of her wits. After he had calmed her down, he repeated Mother Patia's name until he was able to get some idea of where she was. A little further down the wall he came to a door, and hoping that it was as unguarded as the rest of the cloister had been, he slowly opened it.

He stepped into a cool and shady hallway, empty and quiet save for the echoes of male voices from the main church.

"Mother Patia?" he whispered urgently. "Mother, it's Jacob Throughton. Where's Logan?"

"Señor Throughton?" came a familiar voice. It was far more tired and less jovial than he remembered it.

"Yes. Mother, it's me."

A door opened and Mother Patia's worried face emerged from inside.

"_Santo Dios_, what are you doing here? If he finds you he will kill you, Señor."

"Where is Logan, Mother?"

The aged shoulders shrugged and the careworn face wilted. "I don't know, Señor Throughton. He tried to fight against them and they took him. Dios knows what they have done to him." She began to weep a little.

"What's going on here, Mother? Who are all these men? Who is this comandante fellow?"

She scoffed behind her tears. "He's not a comandante. He's a sargento."

It suddenly dawned on Jacob. 'They' were soldiers. Spanish soldados.

"But what are they doing here?"

"You remember I told you the king sent us money to build this church?"

Jacob nodded.

"Well, he also meant for us to have a _santuario_ here too. For lost souls like your brother. We get money from people like you, friends of the King, who have family who stay with us."

Jacob began to understand. The new Convento del Virgen was a rich man's asylum, the place where the wealthy hid their embarrassing relatives, and sent their money.

"So, why the soldiers?"

"They're from the fort near town. _Desertores_," she spat the word. "The sargento leads them, and they pretend to be caring for our patients and then take the money that comes. They let us alone, and they feed us when they remember to. They spend most of their time drinking and--" here the abadesa stopped, embarrassed.

"I think I get the picture," Jacob assured her. "Mother," he continued, settling down to the task which he had set out to achieve, "you remember the money I gave you in London?"

"Sí, the treasure."

"Yes, Mother, where is it? Do you still have it? I have to get it back."

"I spent some of it. But no one would take the _medallones_. The butcher took one look at them and said they must be cursed."

She made a face that expressed her annoyance at such superstitions. Jacob chose not to tell her that the butcher had been right.

"Where are they?"

"They were in my chest, but now?" She raised her hands. "The sargento must have them."

"Thank you, Mother. I'll be back at nightfall."

"What are you going to do?" she asked anxiously.

"I'm going to take what's mine," Jacob said a bit violently.

"Be careful, _hijo_. _Dios va contigo_," she whispered after him, as he slipped once more into the silence of the empty corridor.

------------------

"So ye're sayin' that our gold is in the hands of a bunch of poxy, pissed soldados holed up in a church?" Barbossa punctuated from where he was leaning back in his chair, eying seaman Throughton warily as though deciding whether or not to trust his outlandish account.

"Yes, sir."

Jacob hated the look with which his captain was fixing him. It made him uneasy not to know what was going on behind the steely blue gaze. Too often he had seen the Captain's ferocious temper erupt from such looks, like a sudden burst of lighting in a calm sea.

"Well then, Throughton, we'd better go and get it don't ye think?"

A small and devilish grin appeared to vanish Barbossa's grim demeanor. Jacob relaxed.

"Yes, sir."

And so as the sun sank over the horizon and Mother Patia and her nuns lit their candles for their evening prayers, a large portion of the crew of the _Pearl_ crept out of the woods and into the churchyard of the Convento del Virgen.

Jacob led the unholy band through the cloister's unlocked door and past the somber wooden doors of the sisters' cells. The group edged through the narrow passage, illuminated by the feeble candlelight pouring out underneath the cell doors and the distant light of the main church. Voices echoed around them as they crouched behind the carved doors that separated the cloister from the sanctuary: raucous laughter, foul bellowing, and the occasional sounds of breaking glass. From what Jacob could hear, the men had gotten up some sort of a prize fight between two of the men. Beside him Luis, a wiry Spaniard and devout Catholic, who had been with the crew for many years, cursed.

"These are no true Spaniards," he had told Jacob as they'd departed the _Pearl_. "May the _Santo Virgen _send them to hell where they may rot with demons feasting on their testicles."

When given the situation, Luis had volunteered to come along, and as they waited in the silence, the older man pulled out his rosary and said a prayer to bless their mission. Jacob couldn't help finding it amusing that Luis so often asked for God's blessing for the ruthless dregs of society that made up the _Pearl's _crew. Anyway, he mused, they were beyond God's help at this point. Jacob looked to his captain expectantly, hoping to attack and bring them all one step closer to redemption, but Barbossa merely brought a finger to his lips and listened. Confident that the Pirate Lord of the Caspian Sea had far more experience with this sort of thing than he ever would, Jacob pressed his ear back against the door.

A few minutes later, the noise stopped abruptly. Jacob thought perhaps one of the combatants had been killed, but then reasoned that wasn't likely to bother the 'desertores' very much.

"Buenas noches, Señorita. Es muy tarde para usted ser fuera de cama." (It's very late for you to be out of bed.) Jacob recognized the sargento's menacing voice as it echoed through the church.

There was some sniggering from the men, and a reply, but it was too soft to penetrate the doors. Exchanging a glance with Captain Barbossa, Jacob carefully pulled open one of the heavy doors and slipped inside. The door opened onto the back of the altar. Jacob slipped behind a heavy drapery depicting the Virgin Mary holding the infant Jesus. He scanned the room. The sargento had done better than he expected. Jacob had thought no more than a dozen men would be willing to risk desertion and excommunication and join the sargento, but now Jacob counted just over twenty. He saw that they had also fortified themselves with two small cannons and several barrels of gunpowder. He wondered how long they had been living in the church.

Then, amidst all the drunken and partially uniformed men, Jacob spotted the source of the inaudible reply.

At the back of the church, kept in place by four loaded pistols, was a young girl of about thirteen. Her eyes were wide and her features stretched with fear, but Jacob could see that she was far from plain. Her clothes were modest but very fine, and her ears dangled with tiny emeralds. A few feet from where she was standing, her rather staunch looking duenna was struggling against her captors, a short blade pressed against her throat.

"_Bastardos_!" the duenna shrieked, causing the sargento's calculating gaze to shift from the señorita to her keeper. Thinking she had gotten an upper hand the señora continued.

"Si usted coloca una mano en ella--" (If you lay a hand on her--)

Her speech was stopped short as a pistol shot echoed through the room. Her black laced figure slumped out of her captor's arms and blood spilled from her mouth. In that moment Jacob felt the rest of his crew rush through the door behind him.

"_Susita!_" the girl cried, prevented from rushing to her fallen companion by the pistols still aimed at her own frail body. Large tears flooded down her cheeks, and for few moments the room was silent save for her heartbroken sobs.

"Vienes aqui, querida," the sargento commanded. (Come here.)

The pistols dropped, but the girl didn't move. The sargento strode over to her, reaching forward and grabbing her arm. The señorita let out a yelp of pain, and tried to pull away.

"Por favor. Quiero ver la abadesa. Por favor. Permita que mí veala," she begged. (Please, Señor . I want to see the abbess. Please. Let me see her.)

"Por qué querres tu ver la ramera vieja?" he snarled. (Why would you want to see the old bitch?)

When she didn't respond, he wrenched her arm behind her back. Jacob heard a distinct snapping noise. She let out a cry of pain and began to cry even harder.

"Quiero llegar a ser una monja," she wailed. (I want to become a nun.)

"He conseguido una major," (I've got a better idea) the sargento growled, edging closer with his hand still pinning her broken arm behind her back and bringing his mouth to her frail white neck. With his other hand he reached beneath her cloak and seized one of her early budding breasts. She cried once again in pain and desperation, begging her captor to stop, begging God for help, praying to the blessed virgin to save her.

And then a shot rang out and she felt the sargento's grip slacken. She strepped out of his arms, gaping and crying as she watched his body fall forward onto the church's stone floor, a bullet in his back. Across the room she saw a tall man, a large plumed hat atop his lank ginger hair, his ringed fingers clutching a smoking pistol. At once the room erupted with shouts and curses as the man with the hat led a group of fierce and frightening looking men over the altar and down towards her captors. Thoroughly scared and throbbing with pain, the señorita fainted.

When she awoke she was looking up into the hardened but handsome face of Jacob Throughton. Her ears rang with the loud sounds of the battle still underway just feet from where she was propped against a wall, leaning against a pile of altar cushions. Her heart was still racing with fear, but something about the smiling face before her reassured her.

"Are you ok?" Jacob asked her, a little loudly.

"Acabo de desmayar. Soy espantado muy, y mis heridas de brazo," she began to cry a little. (I just fainted. I'm very scared, and my arm hurts.)

Jacob nodded as though he understood.

"I'm going to take you to Madre Patia." Again he spoke too loudly, as though she would understand him if he shouted.

"Gracias," she said shakily, putting her arm around his neck as he picked her up and made his way through the clamor to the door behind the altar.

In the hallway the sisters huddled together, drawn faces listening to the carnage that raged just beyond the door. At the sight of the pale and frightened girl in Jacob's arms, Mother Patia rushed forward. As she bustled the girl onto one of the simple cots that the sisters slept on, uttering encouraging words in Spanish, Jacob felt confident the girl would be well taken care of. He turned and plunged back through the door.

The church floor was littered with several bodies, but the crew of the _Pearl_ continued to fight with the remaining soldados. Jacob felt a surge of satisfaction as he watched their horrified faces as they realized that his comrades could not die. Jacob pulled out his two pistols. He aimed his first shot carefully, disarming a man about his size by shooting him in the wrist, causing him to drop his sword. Jacob rushed forward, his second shot going wide. He tucked his guns back into their holsters, leaping at the man with his bare fists and a small knife.

Now Jacob was in his element. All those years of fighting his drunken father, of beating up those who dared to laugh at his brother's condition, of fighting for his life on the tough London streets, had created a fierce fighter. As he pummeled his opponent with crushing blows he felt the old rage mixed with fear as the adrenaline swam through his veins. He thought of what these soldados had done to his brother and his revulsion doubled, finding its expression in his fists which pounded against the man's jaw, cracking it in a spray of blood and teeth. The soldado fell to the ground, holding his bleeding mouth. Jacob leaned down over him, his knuckles white as he brought his knife to the man's throat.

"This is for my brother, you Spanish bastard," he growled, before pulling his blade neatly across the man's throat, stopping his reply.

Jacob straightened to find that the few remaining soldados had surrendered, standing in a group in the center of the room surrounded by blood spattered and bloodthirsty pirates. Captain Barbossa leaned in close to one of them, his blade against the man's throat.

"Now," he barked in Spanish, "where are my medallions?"

-------------

Jacob stood in the doorway of a small closet just off the main church. Before him was a large chest. Beside him was Mother Patia. Behind him were his pirate comrades. He reached down, pulling open the heavy oaken lid. Inside were several small boxes, bags of coins, bundles of paper money and a few small pieces of jewelry. Mother Patia reached past Jacob and drew out a medium sized wooden box. She opened it to reveal a small bag heavy with coins.

"The treasure, Señor."

She smiled at Jacob, proffering the bag. Jacob took it, passing it to his captain, who grinned, leaning down and surprising the abadesa by kissing her on the cheek.

"Thankee, Mother," he chuckled at her flustered reaction.

And so the gold was recovered and the roguish group left the Convento del Virgen by the light of the silvery South American moon. As Jacob walked along behind his celebratory shipmates, he felt a hollow ache in his chest. As much as he wanted to believe that Logan was still alive, he felt certain that the soldados must have killed him. He felt the ache sharpen and churn into anger as the thought occurred to him that despite all of his efforts to save Logan from the world of brutality created by Luke Throughton, his brother had died at the hands of the same kind of cruel and depraved men.

Over the next few months, Jacob continued to help the crew recover the lost Aztec coins. While this quest seemed to draw the rest of the crew together, Jacob had never felt so alone. For the first time in his life, he was completely alone; there was no more Logan to write to about his adventures, no more little brother to care for and protect.

Then, after about a year, the _Black Pearl _returned to London. The crew went as they always did to The Happy Rat, a pub that was frequented by less than lawful patrons. Barbossa had worked out a makeshift post system with the barman there, and as the men sipped their drinks the captain passed out the few letters that he had received to them. Jacob was jolted from his melancholy musings when the man pushed a small square of folded parchment into his hands.

_Dear Señor Throughton_, it read, _I am writing to tell you that your brother has returned to the Convento del Virgen. He arrived a few days after the desertores left, and is helping up to restore the convento. Whenever I ask him where he went when the soldados came, he smiles and says he was 'en los manos de los angelos.' He and I both look forward to your next letter. Logan sends his love, and I my thanks._

_Dios le bendice,_

_Madre Patia_

At once Jacob went to the barman for a paper and pen, who informed him that he kept such materials handy due to the frequent drafting of wills at the pub. Ignoring the man's query as to whether he thought he was going to die soon, Jacob found a corner and sat down to write, addressing his letter to Madre Patia, Convento del Virgen.

Across the pub, Mr. Gibbs was lounging with a plump, rosy whore on his arm.

"'oo's that one then?" asked the mistress, admiring Jacob's handsome features.

Gibbs looked.

"Oh, that's young Throughton. Writing his brother I expect."

"Oh," she said, disappointed.

"Interesting story, that," Gibbs said as though to himself, though anyone who knew him would notice him angling for an audience.

"What, story?" the strumpet obliged him.

"Ah well ye see, Throughton there comes from a small town in Surrey called Ginney Head. I suppose you've heard of Ginney Head?"

His listener, as he had expected, shook her head.

"Well, it's a right lovely little town, an' that's where Throughton is from, and his mum, and his dad, and his brother, Logan..."

And as the candles burned lower and the moon rose over London, Joshamee Gibbs told the story of Jacob Throughton, and 'The Lost Treasure of the Convento del Virgen.'

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Glossary (in order of appearance)

Abadesa: abbess

Convento del Virgin: convent of the virgin

de gracias a Dios: thank God

Santo Padre: Holy Father

Hijo: son

Nuevo Mundo: new world

Comandante: commander (for those of you who didn't watch Zorro growing up)

Santo Dios: holy God

Sargento: sergeant

Soldados: soldiers

Santuario: sanctuary

Desertores: deserters

Medallones: medallions

Dios va contigo: God go with you

Querida: a term of endearment, like darling or dear

Dios le bendice: God bless you

--

Be sure to stop by the new ffnet PotC forum, _The Black Pearl_, new home to most of the authors who write under A Magnificent Garden Party. Come say hello to our friendly and helpful crew! :)


	12. Chapter 12

**The Tale of Coin #877**

**Written by: Tina Marina**

**A/N: Hope you all like my contribution! Thank FreedomoftheSeas for her amazing beta work and Nytd for getting us all organized. And of course, the Broken Compass Forum for coming up with another wonderful anthology idea! :)**

**--**

Peter O'Brady could not feel the little bits of him at the edges anymore. It seemed like a lifetime at sea, crossing the brisk and grumpy Atlantic to find the mythical Caribbean, and his fingers and toes seemed to dislike the idea.

It was early enough that Peter had a few moments to himself in his shabby bunk before the captain would expect him on deck of the _Malcontent_, and he took the time to let his worries churn up inside him.

He had spent about fourteen months worrying about his older sister Vivian before he got the courage to follow her to sea. As much as he loved her, Viv deserved to pay a little bit of hell for what she'd done to their mother. A woman who'd been as strong as the squat and sturdy house she'd lived in for thirty years was reduced to a nervous mess. Though not many had noticed her habit of wringing her hands when she believed no one was looking, it had frightened Peter. But the boy, though fifteen years Vivian's junior, had promised himself he would find his sister and set his mother's heart to beating steadily again. So far, he hadn't been particularly lucky.

Suddenly the stuffy space below deck seemed too tight, and Peter crept as silently as possible to get some space to breathe. It was one of those rare moments in which he had time to admire the sea, before his eyes were to be strictly confined to the deck he was mopping, the grunts of grumpy merchant sailors who expected him out of their way overwhelming the calming nip of waves slapping the _Malcontent_.

Hearing boots behind him, Peter frantically reached for his mop, still swimming in a layer of less-than-pristine water.

"What brings you here, boy?" The booming voice of the quartermaster, a daffy bloke the captain was planning on replacing as soon as they made port in Virginia, rang across deck.

Peter cringed. "Er—er—just getting an early start on my duties, sir," he stammered. He was nearly eighteen, but he did still feel like a child among men old enough to salt the sea. This man's name, far as Peter had heard, was Billingsworth, but everyone simply called him Billings.

Billings shook his head, giving Peter a broad clap on the arm. "No, no, no," he grumbled, halfway to laughter.

"Why're you _here_, lad?" Billings asked, taking in the approaching Virginia coast with a wary eye. "You're pay is nothing, the weather's awful, and I haven't heard you say a word since we left for Jamestown. I'm beginning to think that the deckhand has a mission."

Peter's fingers tightened about the mop handle. "To-to find my sister, sir," he mumbled.

A chill breeze began to wander across deck. Peter, whose skin was thin and arms thinner, barely avoided shivering by biting the inside of his cheek. Billings didn't move, and Peter could tell he hardly felt the air on his face anymore.

"Peter," Billings began gravely. "Has anyone told you about pirates, son?"

Peter nodded, a chill of dread accompanying the cold. "No-not exactly, sir," he said softly. He'd heard stories of pirates, but his sister had told them; full of magic and wicked smiles, not how he'd heard they weren't opposed to slicing civilians to bits and drinking themselves to death.

It was vaguely cruel, Peter thought, that Vivian had let him believe in the pirates of her generous imagination. Yet she hardly seemed to realize that "devilish rouge" was hardly a compliment, willing to follow a man she only referred to as "the Captain" to his Caribbean sea. He had stolen her heart, she'd written, and the O'Brady's were quite positive that hearts were not all this captain absconded with.

Billings, leathery face as careworn as it was kind, cleared his throat. "Well, don't take this wrongly, lad, but the present seems a mighty good time to learn a thing or two." His blue eyes, specks in his face, hardly there, flicked to the open sea.

Peter's eyes followed. There was a shape on the horizon.

The boy's stomach froze, and hardly knowing what he was doing or where he was, he strained as far over the edge of the ship as he could. That was hardly the direction of Virginia. Besides, reasoned Peter's brain, icing over with fear, would Virginia, a piece of land that stretched so far, bleeding into a wilderness so wide a thousand Irelands could disappear into it with ease, be able to approach so quickly, with a shape like a frigate?

"There was a ship," Billings began. "It's said that the East India Company owned it for a time, but that it was built for pirates, and when a pirate stood at the helm, it was forever lost to the company and destined to sail as long as it was captained by a rouge."

Their own ship groaned from under them, as though hearing talk of pirates was enough to send it in the other direction. The breeze slackened the sails, trailing off and leaving Peter trembling with worry instead of cold. _The frigate continued to approach_. A lack of wind seemed not to trouble it. It troubled Billings neither, who continued with his tale. "This ship changed hands in the foulest of methods—a mutiny."

Peter's eyes widened. The ship moved closer, flying across the waves on a wind that left the sails of the _Malcontent _limp and lifeless.

"Boy!" Billings snapped, grabbing the back of Peter's shirt. "This is more than just a yarn of average importance; it would benefit to listen. Now," he said, clearing his throat, "This ship, it was said, was on a search for the key to life itself."

As much as he wished for it not to, the ship grew in Peter's mind, its sails snapping in the wind that it carried at its beck and call. It was likely unfair to assume the decks were teeming with filth, but it was comforting, as a swab, to think that his job needed to be well done. And in the midst of it all, a grinning, soulless mask passing as a face: the Captain, Peter thought.

"And," continued Billings, no longer pretending he wasn't watching the ship as well, "when they found it, it is said that the price they had to pay was great enough to make every one regret it."

Other sailors began to mill about behind Peter and Billings. The day was off to an honest start.

"What was it?" breathed Peter, as the other ship drew closer and closer to the _Malcontent_. It was even intimidating as the sun rose behind it, not needing a cover of darkness.

"I can't say I know, lad," admitted Billings. "This tale is of the sort where the bloke that told it to me, was told it by some other fellow with a past, who spent time in some deplorable cell with another man who confirmed it all to be true."

Peter's heart sank into his stomach, where it joined the pit of fear. "So it's not the Captain," he said softly, more to himself than to Billings. He had gotten his hopes up a little; perhaps the sea was not as infinite as it seemed and Vivian was trapped in that very same cursed frigate, doomed to sail with the Captain for an eternity.

Not only would it mean Peter had a chance at being a hero, it would also bring a blessed end to his time at sea. Some men, he was sure, were built for the ocean, but he was glad to say that he could never imagine being one. Yes, the sun beginning to turn the water all sorts of orange was a nice sight, but what time was there to see it?

Billings, in one last attempt to reclaim his story, leaned close to Peter's ear. "These pirates, forced to haunt the seas with their pathetic existence, are supposedly looking for only one thing."

Peter hardly had time to wonder what such a thing could be before Billings was handing him some sort of coin, something icy and gold that smiled at Peter the same way he'd imagined the captain.

"Don't give it to them," Billings said calmly.

The coin drew Peter in with its manic smile. It seemed to be reunited with its brethren. And sickly, the knot in his stomach became heavy enough that he lost his footing as the other ship, the pirate ship, brought to life from the mishmash of Vivian and Billings and other stories that clattered about in his brain, was now dangerously close to the _Malcontent._ Peter's foot landed in a bit of scummy water, sending him to the deck, as he realized what a flurry of movement the merchant ship had been sent into.

Pirate raids were not uncommon, but they had been blessed with an empty, cold and gray sea. Their captain, who drank, cursed, and worked like a common sailor, was shouting orders, somehow trying to get the weak wind allow the _Malcontent_ to escape.

And so there was a haze of running, and shouting, and searching for pistols, and a rusty sword was placed in Peter's hand, and much of what happened was all a blur in Peter's mind, until the man set foot upon the _Malcontent's_ deck.

He was tall, though more of it came from the merchant sailors shrinking from him. He was dressed quite elegantly for a legend supposedly cursed, and even the wide brim of his hat could send a bolt of fear into a man's heart.

"Seems ye have something that we need," he said. His eyes, far crazier - yet far more intelligent - than Billings, scanned the deck. "If ye know the story of Captain Hector Barbossa of the _Black Pearl_," he continued, with an air of pride, "then ye'll know we 'ave little patience an' less mercy." The pirate's crew shared a dangerous laugh.

Peter's breath caught in his throat. _He_ held the tiny, golden key to the pirate's curse? Billings was right. He couldn't let himself be convinced to help men that wanted to kill him on the slight chance that Vivian might have been referring to this captain.

Peter leapt, dove, and drove the sword into the man's stomach. It needed a revolting amount of strength.

"In fact, as ye've already made an attempt on my life, I feel obligated to take yers," he mused. "But I shan't. Ye know why, boy?"

"No," Peter whispered.

"Familiarity," he said shortly. "Any acquaintance what I've not yet killed certainly deserves a moment to explain who exactly he is."

Hardly believing himself, "I'm Peter," Peter said, still cowering on the deck.

The pirate grinned again. "There be quite a few Peter's, lad, but what I'd want to know is, what'd go on your grave if I were to return the favor you've handed me." The man reached into his own gullet, prompting Peter to gulp for air and scream at the same time.

As his own breath strangled him, the captain leaned own, dangling Peter's sword, dripping in his own blood, in the boy's face. His face remained grim, but not cruel. If Peter were less frightened, he would have detected a small amount of sadness in the pirate's jaw.

The pirate dropped the sword. It seemed to take hours to watch it leave his hand, clattering to the deck as the early morning sun hit it, sending a glare into Peter's eyes. "I—I'm Peter O'Brady, sir," he sputtered. "Here to find my sister Vivian and bring her back from this hell—this hellhole and back to Ireland. Where she b-belongs, sir." Peter didn't know what about the pirate captain invited him to say so much, but he'd spouted it all without noticing that the man was thoughtfully narrowing his eyes.

"Masters Twigg and Kohler!" the captain shouted, turning to his crew, who snapped into action. "Take a longboat from this soggy excuse for a ship and send the boy down in it. The rest of you bilge rats may take a look below deck and see what a couple of scoundrels like ourselves may take a fancy to." His grin in place, he stamped and scowled, sending the merchant sailors scuttling as far away from him as possible.

Away from Barbossa and his terrifying glee, Peter saw something else. All of the men he had been ignored by as a scrawny deckhand were reduced to scared children, probably told the same stories he'd been raised on. And the pirates, if Billings was to be trusted (for he had told just another story, it had to be admitted, if less romantic than Vivian's) had a sort of happiness on their angular faces.

"Captain," Peter said. "Are you the Captain? Did you," he asked hesitantly, "know Vivian?"

Barbossa simply held his hand out to the side. Peter placed the coin into the pirate's hand, which snatched it, examined it, and sent it to disappear into his elegant coat.

"Seems the boy has saved us some time," the captain said sweetly. Voice gruff once more, he gestured to two of his crewmembers. "Get the boy into his boat and make sure he has proper oars before we send this heap to meet her maker." And the pirates busied themselves with going; all the talk of raiding the textiles the _Malcontent_ was shipping (or, God forbid, the drink) mere talk.

"Come on, ya scrawny piece o' meat, get in!" a portly crewmember shouted at the boy.

Peter climbed into the longboat, the faces of his fellow sailors sour, knowing their own mortality. But for a moment that would linger in his mind for years, Barbossa turned his head to Peter. "If I catch ye lookin' back, I'll have to tell yer sister ye met with an unfortunate fate at the hand of piratin' dogs. And I'd not want to do that to such a good woman. In fact, she and her captain send their regards."

"Aye, sir," Peter replied breathlessly. And he took not even one backward glance.


End file.
